Gone So Long
by GhostKiss
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Angst. A year has passed since Sherlocks death, and things are still difficult. That is, until Sherlock shows up at Johns apartment. All the questions arive, what was left undone and unsaid.  Johnlock Romance, very angsty
1. Preface: Overheard at the Grave

Overheard at the Grave of Sherlock Holmes

"Hello dear, its Mrs. Hudson. I was in the cafe today, I bought a few too many cakes because I forgot that, well... You aren't around to eat them. Its all rather funny, isn't it? I gave some to John but he's all cooped up still, I doubt he'd eat them. So I brought some to you! I know that well, you used to be very mad about it when I would bring them to you before. But I know you ate them, all the same. You were always so pushed back about things! But you were so kind to me, so I supposed I'd thank you. Things without you are just fine, we've managed to live through this first month. At least, I have. Its so peaceful, without you shooting everything up and getting in trouble every few days!... Though I do admit, I miss you, very much. So does John, I don't think he's been here in a while, right? He's just barely started to live at the apartment again. He lost his old job, but thats fine because Lestrade offered him a full position working for him, when he's ready. You know. I think he's getting better, though he certainly isn't sleeping. He misses you the most, his sister has been around trying to make him feel better... You know, I always suspected you two had something. But oh, he denied it a lot didn't he? Oh, but now I know I was right. Thats all that there is to say, I suppose. I'll see you in a week, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>"Hello Sherlock, its been a month and a half so I thought I'd stop by... I bet you're wondering how things are without you, right? Well, they're alright, at the station. We've had a lot of cases, usually nothing we can't figure out. But some keep coming up- you know the type. The type I'd call you up for. It makes me feel very stupid, for ever doubting you. Sometimes there are just cases people can't solve. But you could, couldn't you? All of us in the police- well, needless to say we wish you were here now. We all know, you're innocent. There's still so much controversy! How's that, eh? You're dead, and people are still fussing about you... Donovan and Anderson just felt terrible, I think they blame themselves. But I think they know you didn't do any of those things you were framed for, deep down. Anderson was so upset he quit! Can you believe that? Not that I'm really bent out of shape about it, he really was annoying. Johns coming to work for me next week, he's giving it a shot. I've only seen him a few times but, god, he looks like crap really. I hear he's been to the therapist again. Well, that's all to update about for now. Goodbye, Sherlock."<p>

* * *

><p>"This is stupid, I'm not doing this."<p>

"Come on, Mycroft. He's your brother, I promised John I'd make you come and talk to him."

"Eh... Fine, Mrs. Hudson. But could you please leave?... Alright, where do I begin? I suppose this is all very pointless. You can't even hear me and you're not- Well, needless to say, I haven't visited these past two months. I know Mrs. Hudson comes by every week, leaving you flowers and treats. I'm sure you'd find it completely idiotic. And Lestrade comes- oh yes I've kept my eye on everyone. Its sort of... the least I can do since you aren't here. John hasn't come here since you went, has he? No... He still blames me very much. I've sent him photos I have of you both together... I've tried to contact him a few times. He refuses to take my calls. I do feel like it's all my fault, a bit. If it wasn't for me none of this with Moriarty would have happened at all. I'm sure you'll forgive me too, one day. Mrs. Hudson? Can we leave now?"

"Yes, you can go. I'd like to speak to him though."

"Fine."

"Hello, Sherlock dear. Its officially been two months! We're all doing very well, thank you. Oh, look at all these flowers... You had quite a lot of fans, you know. Lots of people who will never believe you lied- myself included. All the people you helped... Oh, they send flowers to the apartment too. It's like we're a flower shop- can you believe it? I mostly try to hide them, I think they just make John feel worse. I'd love to think he's getting better. He's moving all of your things out this weekend before his sister leaves- Oh dear, Mycroft is leaving. I suppose I'll see you next week, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>"Ah, hello there um... Mister Holmes. I've heard so much about you! Shame I never got to meet you really, John was very clear about that. I think he personally just wanted to keep you for himself! Ah, I've got a few hours before I'm leaving town so I thought I'd stop by. I'm Harry, by the way, Johns sister. Its been a few months, since your death. I helped John move all your stuff out, this weekend. He was very... Oddly unattached, really. He actually seemed glad to get rid of all your... body parts. You're a strange man. I insisted he move it all out, of course. I think its crucial to the healing process. Some things though... he needed to keep. Just a few, trivial things. I really hope they don't make him think too hard. His therapy doesn't seem to be helping. I feel like I should hate you, Sherlock Holmes, for doing this to my brother. Thats a thing about suicide- you never think about exactly who you hurt. Goodbye, Sherlock."<p>

* * *

><p>"Hello, freak. I've been thinking I should come for a long time. And now I'm here and well… I don't know what to say. I guess I should start with… well, it's been two months, a little over… I've been working very normally. You'd probably find some way to call me a bitch without really saying it, right? If you were here? Well you don't have to say anything, because I know that I'm a bitch, alright? Its just… I really thought- I thought it was your fault. I always thought you were just so… freaky. I knew it was only a little bit of time before you broke, and you commit the crimes. But I was wrong, wasn't I? I guess I didn't- I didn't see that maybe you were human. I get it now, that stupid flat-mate of yours is so depressing. You really killed yourself, huh? And nothing anyone could say… I just, I know it was my fault, okay? I'm sorry. I really am."<p>

* * *

><p>"Hello Sherlock. Everyone's been bugging me about coming by, so I thought I would. Not like it really matters, right? It's just a fake body and a headstone, I know you aren't dead. I'm glad you trusted me. Still, it's been three months; for all I know, you could be dead!... I got very dressed up to come see you today. I know if you were here you'd say something snide about it; "Oh Molly you stupid girl, trying so hard to look good." Where are you, Sherlock? I haven't told anyone you are alive. Things here about you are starting to calm down, I wish you'd come back. I almost can't take it anymore; everyone so sad about it. No one really talks about it. I visit John a lot; like I promised you I would. It looks like he's finally sleeping, but Mrs. Hudson told me he still hasn't come? He'll come, Sherlock. He has to. He'll always believe in you. I swear it. I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm sorry everything had to end like this."<p>

* * *

><p>"Itty, bitty Sherlock. What a stupid little grave, my love. You aren't dead at all, are you? You just… can't be. I know you so much better than that, out fooled by Moriarty? No, not you. I simply love the ripple effect of your death though; so many people panicking! You had so many more friends then you thought. Those people just… loved you, Holmes. As they should, I sure did."<p>

"Mrs. Adler? We should go soon, you can't be seen."

"I know. Let me just… Sherlock, I want to thank you. You saved my life, and I think you… changed me, a bit. But I want you to know that I think I loved you- as much as you could love the idea of a person. Of course, I was a fool to think you'd ever love me back. I'm not a fool, we all see the way you looked at him. Goodbye, Sherlock. For one last time."

* * *

><p>"Hello again Sherlock! I've brought you more cakes today- the ones from before have disappeared. I know it's not four months yet, but I come with news. John helped solve a case today! One of those really impossible ones that Lestrade has been stressing about. I've never seen him look so alive! Running about the apartment, putting everything together in his head… It reminded me so much of you! It was just lovely. He solved the case and they confessed- a real good murder case too. Lestrade was pleased, he's taking John out tonight for drinks. I hope he does okay. Mycroft says he still hasn't visited here… I hope he does soon, Sherlock. He misses you so much. Sometimes, people die and you're just… filled with so many emotions. Anger, fear, hate. He'll hate you for a while, and then he'll be sad. They do that because, after all the emotions go away, you're just empty. And sometimes it's easier to be angry and sad then to be empty. But only when you're empty, then you can move on. And only when he forgives himself, can he come here. Goodbye, Sherlock."<p>

* * *

><p>"Hey… Sherlock. It's been a while since I was here, huh? Four months… Shit, I'm not exactly sober right now. To be honest I was afraid to drink- afraid that if I got drunk enough I'd forget and then I'd have a drinking problem, like Harry. But I don't want to drink, I don't want to forget you, that's the truth. But now I'm a little drunk, and now I really want to tell you everything, you stupid… you stupid… Shit, I miss you so much. Its ripping me apart. And no one will leave me alone! Harry was around for months, and then Mrs. Hudson won't leave me alone. Lestrade and Molly are always checking up on me. Even Mycroft won't stop calling me but- I don't want to talk to him. I think I forgave him a long time ago. But he's still… your brother. If I see him I don't know what I'd do. And it's like if they leave me alone for two seconds I'm going to die. And hell, sometimes I feel like I might die. Sherlock, how could you leave me alone? How could you… How could you do this to me? I know maybe it felt like the only way to do anything right was to die, but, you were most important to me when you were alive. And now I can't even move on… Like, not even two years we were together. And four months we've been apart, and everything reminds me of you! I hate you, I really do. Except not really. Do you want to know something I can't say, I don't tell anyone else…? ….. I love you. I do, I always will. You were my brother and my best friend and I <em>need<em>you. I know I told you to stop being dead but… if you could really do that, do it now.

I'm so stupid. You'll never be here, not again. I can't believe this, I can't believe you're dead! I solved a case today, you know? I can feel myself moving on, forgetting you. And that hurts the most. What if I forget you? I don't… I don't want to forget you…. I don't cry, Sherlock. And you make me cry. Are you happy?... The worst part is, I think I knew. I felt like something was wrong with you, since Christmas but I kept ignoring it. I didn't think you'd… God I didn't know you'd kill yourself, in front of me. Off a building, and I keep reliving it… it's the nightmares, they keep me up. I hear your voice on the other side of the phone, I keep trying to fix it and I can't because it's gone. God, Sherlock, I don't want to move on. I wanted to be your blogger forever. And then life caught up to us….. I guess that's it. I'm so sorry."


	2. Chapter 1: A Train to London

Hello dears.

I hope you liked the Preface, but the real story begins now. This story is therapy for me, because I don't think I can go a year without Sherlock and without knowing what happens!

It will be angsty, it will have a lot of sexual tension and John/Sherlock lovin.

Enjoy!

-ACR

* * *

><p>A train to London, early morning in June. The year is 2013. A man is sitting, alone, black hair chopped recently short. He's wearing a suit, covered up in a grey coat. He looks out the window and clutches his umbrella, the nerves get to him despite himself. It's going to rain today, it seems, and he hasn't been in this city in a very long time.<p>

He picks up his phone and dials a familiar number; the only number he really uses.

"Yes?" The voice of his brother chimes, already annoyed.

"I'm on the train, I'm nearly there," He looks once more out of the window.

"I'm begging you, not to do this, Sherlock." Mycroft frowns on the other end, "The risks are too high. You made your choice, a year ago, to stay away. I thought you would respect that."

"I've weighed the chances of being recognized," Sherlock cocked his head, "And I'm taking my chances. I'll make sure no one sees me, if it makes you feel any better."

"Fine. I know I can't stop you. You're impossible."

"You said John will be out of his house soon?"

"Yes, he'll be gone to work within the hour. Be careful."

Across town, 221B; a tiny apartment. John Watson wakes up and lies in bed, the images of his nightmares still swimming in his head. The fall of a body, the blood on the face, the lifeless eyes. He knows immediately what today is, but he pushes it out of his head. Time to get up, go to work, have a normal day. So he does. He gets up and heads to the kitchen to make food, trying to ignore all the strange furniture; the emptiness he feels anyway.

As he's toasting bread and boiling water for tea, his phone rings. He glances at the ID, and lets out a shuddering sigh before answering.

"Yes, Lestrade?"

"Good morning, John," Greg's fake and cheery voice came through, "How are you feeling today."

"Great." John lied.

"I called to tell you not to eat a big breakfast today, the bodies of last night's case are rather… mangled."

John took out his toast and threw it in the garbage, "Fantastic."

"Indeed. Another one of the butcher serial killings, the fifth in the last few months."

"Two bodies, same as always?"

"Yes."

"And still no leads?" John poured his tea and knew the answer.

"No," Lestrade faked a laugh, "It's funny really. Cases like these make me miss him more than ever, you know? He would… He'd have it cracked by now."

John was silent, gripping his spoon with painful strength, "Lestrade."

"What?"

"He…" John gulped, "He died, and all you did was try to arrest him because you thought he was the one behind all those cases you couldn't crack."

"I…" Lestrade felt embarrassed, "I know. And _these_ cases, the impossible ones, are just a constant reminder that I was so, so wrong. I'll never doubt him, you know that. I'll always believe in Sherlock Holmes."

John closed his eyes and sipped his tea carefully, "I'll see you at work."

At the train station, Sherlock hailed a cab. As it pulled over, he sat down inside.

"221B, Bakers Street, please." He set his umbrella down next to him.

"Alright," the cabbie glanced at him through the window, "Hey, do I know you from somewhere?"

Nervousness gripped at his stomach, "I don't believe so, no."

"I'm sure you're right."

Mrs. Hudson greets John at the bottom of the stairs. He smiles at her while he pulls on his jacket and scarf.

"Are you going to visit his grave today?" She says, and his stomach sinks. Another feeling to ignore.

"No, why would I?"

"John sweety," she looks sincere, "Its one year, today."

He frowns at her and ties on his scarf, "The world still moves on without him."

Though that's not entirely true.

He leaves, shutting the door behind him only as Mrs. Hudson realizes he hasn't taken an umbrella. She frowns and then sighs.

"I'm sure he'll be fine."

John begins his travel down the street towards work.

The cab pulls up to 221B and Sherlock steps out, taking it all in. The building is… familiar. But at the same time, it isn't. It's had some work done, maybe. Or maybe he was just expecting different. His mind never really fails him, but today feels like a haze. In his pocket, a beep rings out. He takes it out and reads the text.

**He's not inside. –M**

He approaches the old wooden door and rests his palm against it, feeling and touching and remembering. Then he takes the door handle in his hand and opens it slowly. He glances around, making sure no one is there, before embarking up the stairs.

John keeps walking, but he's only walked up a block when he looks up into the sky to see the dreary clouds. He frowns, debating whether to keep walking, try to beat the rain. Or maybe even hail a cab. But he has time, so he turns around to head back to his apartment for an umbrella.

The door to Sherlocks old apartment opens easily and he walks inside. To maybe anyone else, the apartment would look mostly the same, but not to him. He sees the difference and it takes away his breath, a momentary realization of the change that has happened since he left. Most of his things are gone, replaced with new things. A new desk, with a new computer. Two bookshelves full of books, none of which Sherlock recognizes. Even the furniture, besides Sherlocks old chair, has been replaced. Paintings now adorn the walls, pictures of the sky and dreary forests. Sherlock nearly wonders if John even still lives here, but he can sort of… smell him. And there's not doubt that this is his home.

No woman lives here though, it seems John has remained single. The thought makes Sherlock smile. Then something catches his eye, mounted on the wall next to an unfamiliar painting above the fireplace. Sherlock approaches, his mouth slightly ajar. His old violin, now hanging on the wall. Underneath it is a plaque that reads:

**In memoriam of Sherlock Holmes.**

He smiles sadly and runs his fingers along the strings, removing it from the wall. A quick tune and it will be good as new. Maybe he has time for one more song.

John reaches the door, glad he didn't try to keep walking to work as it has started drizzling outside. As he comes inside, he sees a navy umbrella that Mrs. Hudson had left out for him. He smiles and takes it. As he's about to walk outside again, he hears a strange noise coming from upstairs. The sound of a violin playing.

He stands there, listening; it's one of his favorite songs, one of Sherlocks favorite songs. Then, shock washes over him. An odd, sort of haunting feeling. He hasn't heard the violin being played here in… a year.

Carefully, he takes a step up the stairs. As he's walking, fear begins to take him. Maybe the fear of ghosts, but more the fear of expectations, the unknown, of what awaits in his apartment, playing the song he hasn't heard in so long. Even greater, perhaps the fear that he's finally going insane.

John opens the door to a sight he's seen a hundred times, maybe. The tall, slender figure standing at his window, playing out sweet symphonies to the town, lost in a different world. It is something John probably ignored hundreds of time, or pretended it annoyed him. But how many other times did he stand in the other room, listening and enjoying every second of it. How many times did he compliment Sherlock on his playing? Twice, maybe three times. It was something he regretted deeply, to this day.

Only today, hearing it meant something different, something haunting. Because this was the music of a dead man.

_Definitely crazy. Or do crazy men, know they are crazy?_ The haze was coming now, fast. _Perhaps a dream._

"Sherlock."

The words escape his mouth before he has time to think about them, in a single breath he didn't know he had been holding since before he reached the door. The tall man stopped playing, and turned around slowly. The blue eyes met his, and electricity ran through Johns body. This was not the face of a dead man, this all felt too real.

The two men stared at each other from across the room, not able to stop looking, but neither willing to make a move or take any step. John himself, Sherlock realized, looked so far from normal. He looked more gruff then he had been before, with longer hair now, if maybe not by much. He had dark circles under his eyes, almost like when he had first met him. Those were the eyes of a man haunted by nightmares. Sherlock knew from Mycroft, that John had been re-attending therapy since his own "death", but this hit him so much harder than its knowledge. To actually see what the aftermath of his leaving looked like – painful.

Sherlock made the first move. He took a few steps across the room towards John, which made John jump. The comprehension of his dead friend being in front of him was hard enough, but this was happening too fast. John's little movement of fear seemed to make Sherlock stop in his tracks, staring into the terrified face of his old companion. He felt his own face begin to disintegrate. _This was such a bad idea._

John watched as Sherlocks ghostly face began to mirror sadness, and something else… maybe fear, mixed with tension and perhaps a hint of relief. It all felt rather human, and John gripped the door-handle, unable to understand how- why this was happening to him. He didn't notice the tears dripping down his face. But Sherlock did.

The tall man took a few, slow steps forward. When John didn't seem to care, he quickened his pace, and then stopped in front of him. He slowly outstretched his hand towards Johns face, wanting to wipe away the tears there. But John looked terrified, uncertain. So he held his hand an inch away from them and looked at his old friend with hope; hope he wouldn't be rejected now.

John felt so aware of the hand, inches from his face. Every tiny and fast beating of his heart was screaming out, "this is real, someone has answered you prayers." He finally gave into his urges and leaned into the hand, whose warmth was unexpected, and yet so wonderful. Since Sherlocks death, John had been wary of physical contact. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson and her little pats of encouragement was the only contact he had felt in this past year. He even denied the handshake of Lestrade after a job-well-done. So his face, resting in Sherlocks hand, wasn't just new, but shocking in how much he felt like he needed it. He closed his eyes and enjoyed it, his own hand coming up to hold Sherlocks to his face. This certainly felt like the best dream he'd had in a long time.

John looked so peaceful, his eyes shut as he laid against Sherlock. But he looked so perfectly sad. Sherlock ran his thumb across Johns cheek, wiping away a tear that was resting there.

John didn't know he was crying. "Shit, shit," his eyes flew open and he pulled away. He walked past Sherlock as he rubbed his face, and the tears he didn't know he was shedding. It was almost embarrassing, seeing Sherlock and crying like this. He couldn't make them stop, this certainly wasn't how he ever thought he would react. He looked up and met Sherlocks face, broken from rejection. Then, it hardened into a face of uncaring that John had always known was a lie. Sherlock coughed and gestured towards the couch.

"Can we sit down?" Sherlock asked. His voice, deep and tired sounding, brought back a whole wave of sadness. Something as simple as a question, brought back all the feelings he had been pushing down inside.

Sherlock was surprised when John nodded. He thought he would have run away by now, pushed him away and hated him, maybe. He had often thought of how his reunion with John would be. He had always expected to see John happy, moving on and away from the fact Sherlock had died. Part of his hoped for that, John to be happy. But a tiny, selfish part of him, was happy John was so broken right now. That perhaps, he had actually meant something to the only person he had ever, really cared for.

John walked past him, and sat down on the couch. He purposely avoided eye contact, and Sherlock didn't blame him. After a moment of hesitation, the thought came to him. Maybe he could walk out that door, leave John alone forever now. But he fought back the urge, and closed the door before joining his friend on the couch.

They sat on opposite sides, at first. Sherlock looked at John, who was staring at the violin that Sherlock had replaced on the wall.

"What?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"I-" John gulped, still unsure if he was dreaming but it felt a hallucination "I haven't moved that since I put it up there."

"Oh?" Sherlock looked away. Everything else was gone, it seemed. The violin looked like the only remainder of what had once been his home, too.

John must have read his mind, "I have a lot of things I haven't touched." He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes, "One of your scarves, the red one. It's still in the closet. People aren't allowed to sit in your chair. They had to pry your phone out of my hands so they could take it away…" John squeezed his face together, failing to hold back a new wave of tears.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. He moved closer, once again running his fingers across Johns cheek nervously. He wasn't sure, really, how to deal with human emotions. It was then that he noticed John was trembling.

"You're shaking," Sherlock breathed.

"Yeah." He looked at his feet, "I tend to do that, now."

"Why won't you look at me?"

John turned harshly and looked at him then, a look that gave Sherlock chills up his back. He didn't expect for this to affect him, he didn't think seeing John cry would make him want to.

"I'm trying to make this hurt less, if it's a dream."

"Isn't it a good dream?" Sherlock tried to smile and failed.

"No," John looked away again, new tears coming, "Because I still wake up and you're dead."

Sherlock's mouth fell open in shock of the honesty. He hadn't expected anything like this. He reached over and took Johns hand in his, squeezing it.

"This isn't a dream."

"I saw you die!" John stood up, pulling away, and once again throwing Sherlock into a pit of rejection. He cross the room, anger boiling in him now. Everything he wanted to say to Sherlock and never could. Nights he had stayed up crying because he couldn't handle it. Blamed Sherlock for so long because of how he felt.

"I-" Sherlock started.

"You left me!" John turned and glared at him, "You left me alone. You died, I saw you die. I saw your body and now you are here." The hot tears were running fast. If this was really a dream, he was going to get out everything he was feeling. If it wasn't a dream, he was going to scream it anyway.

Sherlock stared at him, trying to remain calm. He shook his head, standing up, "Everyone dies."

"Not you!" John shouted, "There were so many things I needed to do. Needed to say! You left me all alone, to live in this bloody place by myself. And now you're _here_, saying you haven't been dead at all. Months of trying to get over it, move on, and I never could. I could never throw out that stupid scarf or that dumb violin. Every time I get a text, part of me expects it to be you. Every time I open this door, I expect you to be sitting here with your stupid, smug face and all your… you-ness!"

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, before Sherlock started chuckling deeply.

"What!" John frowned at him.

"It's funny because, you don't know how many times I nearly texted you. Maybe just to scare you, or let you know that I was fine. But I didn't."

John didn't say anything.

"You had to think I was dead," Sherlock sat back down and put his head in his hands, "If I had stayed alive, stayed here, you all would be dead."

"What?"

"Three guns," Sherlock stared at him, "Three. One pointed at your head, one at Mrs. Hudson, one at Lestrade. The only person, with the way to keep you alive, was Mortiarty, and he killed himself in front of me. The only way… the only way that they would leave you all alone is if I died. If I jumped from that building and…" He couldn't bring himself to say the rest. Just thinking about it brought back the memories, and tears were close.

John stared at him. The idea that Sherlock pretended to die to protect him was absolutely stupid. Because it hurt John a lot more when he thought he was dead.

"Why couldn't you have told me, then? About your plan?"

Sherlock shook his head gravely, "Because I realized- then, it was Moriarty. But tomorrow, it could be someone else. This is just a reminder that I might be… special, but I'm not the only one. And as long as I am here, I will continue to put you in harm's way."

"I think I deserve to be able to make that choice for myself." John frowned. The haze was lifting, this was beginning to be… real.

"And I don't?" Sherlock locked eyes on him, "I know if I gave you the choice, you stay with me every time. But one day, I come home and you are dead- or worse, you've finally turned against me… Then I lose. I'd rather die, rather you move on and be happy and live a normal life without me."

John released a breath and closed his eyes, "Then why did you come back today?"

"I needed to see for myself , how things were going, a year after my death. All I knew was what Mycroft told me. That Molly is dating a good man, that Mrs. Hudson is doing well and she's very happy. That Lestrade continues to be a bumbling idiot about cases, and that you're working for him now, you took Andersons job after he quit, congratulations." Sherlock laughed, "But he told me lies, too. That you were engaged to be married, happy, moved on. And all I wanted to do was see for myself, you were never meant to find me here."

"I'm not… engaged," John took a few steps closer and sat down across from Sherlock.

"I know."

"I mean," he looked out the window, "I couldn't even date. How do I explain the nightmares to someone, explain how my best friend killed himself and the world still thinks he's a fake. Most importantly, how do I… How do I love someone again, if they might just… die."

Sherlock momentarily ignored the word 'love', "You don't think I'm a fake?"

"I couldn't think you lied to me, even when you told me you lied to me." John smiled then, a real smile, a genuine one.

Relief filled Sherlock, "I'm… glad."

"Wait, Mycroft knew you were alive?"

"Of course, who do you think set things up for me to go into hiding, for me to fake my own death?" Sherlock mused, "Molly helped, too, of course. With the body and such."

"I'm gonna kill them." John sighed. That made Sherlock start laughing, which as always, made John start laughing. He had nearly forgotten this, how much better he felt just being near him.

"You're awful calm about this." John laughed, "For someone who's been dead for a year."

"I'm happy," Sherlock smiled at him, "Truthfully, I actually am trying not to cry. It's interesting."

"Feelings? Doesn't sound like old Sherlock."

"You'll find that I'm not the old Sherlock. I've had too much time to think about all the things I'd say or do or feel if I could see you again, just come back to this place." He looked around.

John looked up at him, "Me too."

Sherlock met his eyes, "What would you do if this was the last day you could see me again?"

"Is it?" He asked nervously.

"God, I hope not."

"Then it doesn't matter, right?" John smiled despite himself and stood up, "Come on. I think we should talk to Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock stood up and stretched his hand out to stop his friend. John looked at him.

"Please, tell me."

"No, you're here and you aren't leaving so it doesn't matter." John turned away. The answer, rather frightened him. Something he didn't talk about with his therapist, though she had long and often tried to get him to fess up. Though, at the moment, he wasn't sure if he really knew that answer at all. All he really knew was that; by some means, he had a second chance with Sherlock and he wasn't going to blow it. He also wasn't going to just let it all go right now.

Sherlock watched him turn and pause. He cocked his own head curiously and watched as John turned around.

"Can I do one thing, I wish I had done?"

"Of course." Sherlock breathed.

John approached him and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling Sherlock into a hug. He had never done it before, and he always wished he had. Sherlock smiled and wrapped his arms around John too. After a few moments of breathing, John pulled away and offered up a quick smile.

"Lets go."


	3. Chapter 2: Silent Screams For Help

Chapter two you guys! Sorry its so... Dialogue-y. I love writting the dialogue between these two, its hilarious.

Um. I feel like I should have a** trigger warning** right now. Just... warning. This chapter touches on it, but serious issues coming up soon.

I'm trying to write as from-the-heart as possible. Its kinda just... hard and I have a lot to say.

Anyway, enjoy.

I don't own Sherlock! -ACR

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><p>Telling Mrs. Hudson didn't exactly go as planned. She nearly fainted or had a heart attack or something, and then hugged Sherlock for nearly an hour. They explained the basics of what had happened to her; including her life having been in danger. She nodded as they spoke and then promised not to breathe a word of it to anyone. After a few minutes debating, they decided not to tell Lestrade. Not yet.<p>

They talked for hours until the sun started to sink below the clouds, and John decided to go get food as long as Sherlock stayed there. Actually, John was worried he'd come back and Sherlock _wouldn't_ be there, gone again forever. Though, as the hours passed, John was fairly certain this was all real. It felt real.

Sherlock, however, didn't really want to leave. Or for John to leave, but he needed time to think, talk to Mycroft and explain. He didn't really know what to do, he still felt like one breath of a word he was alive and everyone he knew was in danger. Though in his head he thought that Moriarty's assassins were all over it by now, he couldn't ever be sure. And the uncertainty was the scary part.

After John was gone, Sherlock leaned back into his chair and sat quietly, trying to just enjoy this. He could… smell John. He thought that was maybe weird, but he didn't care. John may have thought he was dead, but Sherlock thought his year away from John was even worse. Knowing he was out there, maybe hurting or worse; happy without him, and knowing he couldn't see him again. It was the worst year of his life. So smelling John, seeing him, it was everything Sherlock needed right now.

He wondered how long he could live with John under this roof, maybe they wouldn't ever have to leave.

He sighed and opened his phone. Several text messages he missed, all from Mycroft.

**Sherlock, I just saw John go inside. –M**

**Sherlock, what's going on? Did you get out? –M**

**Did he see you? –M**

**Sherlock? –M**

He rolled his blue eyes and dialed his worried brothers number. Mycroft almost immediately answered.

"Sherlock? Are you alright, what happened?" He sounded very concerned.

"No, Mycroft. I'm dead because John killed me."

"Sarcasm isn't becoming of you. What happened?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, "He walked in on me, what do you think happened?"

"I texted you, didn't you see it?"

"Maybe call next time Mycroft, I was busy."

"Doing what!"

"Playing my violin."

"Oh you," Mycroft put his face in his hands, "You got caught because you were playing an instrument!"

"Not _any_ instrument_, my_ violin. He's kept it."

"Sentimental, now, are we? What did you tell him, Sherlock?"

"What was I supposed to tell him? I told him the truth."

"All the truth?"

"Of course."

Mycroft sighed, "God you're such a little bitch."

Sherlock frowned, "Excuse me?"

"A love struck puppy. Can't go a year without breaking down for your boyfriend."

"I'm not afraid of human relations, Mycroft."

"Maybe you should be if it's going to get them killed." Sherlock was silent, "We both know how this ends, Sherlock, every time. Tell no one about this. When you're done with this little… thing, call me and we'll send you back to the countryside; where you belong. Where everyone stays safe." He hung up.

Sherlock sighed deeply and put the phone back in his pocket, keeping his eyes closed. He couldn't decided if Mycroft was right or not. He knew a year ago that he had to die, had to leave them all alone so they could be safe. But now things were… different. John obviously wasn't happy without Sherlock and Sherlock wasn't happy without John, so what was the point? Well, he knew the point. A sad John was better than a dead John.

And what if John did die? The thought actually wretched at Sherlocks stomach. If John just stopped existing…

"I'd stop existing." He said. Saying it out loud made him feel even worse. He sighed and closed his eyes and tried to think, but sleep soon took him over. He hadn't slept in days…

John had rushed out to get food, across town to the place where he and Sherlock had first staked out for a case. He felt a connection there, but he hadn't been there in a while. It used to bring back bad memories, things that he now would love to keep around forever, if he could.

He rushed back home, almost certain Sherlock wouldn't be there, and when he walked inside at first, he didn't see him. And then he did. How Sherlock could curl up and fall asleep in a chair still amazing John. He was like some… tall freaking puzzle and he could fit in anywhere. The sight made John grin though; he looked so innocent when he slept. You almost wouldn't know he was an annoying dick.

"Sherlock?" John nudged him, "Sheeerrlockkk, I brought food."

Sherlock grumbled, "I'm not hungry."

"Fine. I'll put it away for when you are hungry. Idiot." John walked to the kitchen and packed away the food. He liked being able to insult Sherlock again. Lovingly, of course.

Sherlock shuffled to the table, "Do you have a cigarette?"

"No."

"Liar."

John turned and looked at him, "What?"

"I can smell the nicotine on your furniture, a bit on your clothes. No one can blame you for taking up smoking, I just want one."

John glanced over at him, "Didn't you quit?"

"Yes, and then I was- well, never mind."

"What?"

"What?" Sherlock faked innocence.

"You did and then you were what?"

"I did… And then I lost my best friend." As Sherlock said it, he looked away, almost embarrassed. John felt himself get red in the cheeks as well. He had always considered Sherlock his best friend, but he didn't know he felt the same….

"You don't have to hide your emotions, Sherlock," John sat across from him at the table and pulled out a cigarette, handing it to him, "I know you're human. You cried on the phone with me."

Sherlock glared and him and chose to ignore that comment. He took the cigarette and lit it, "Why did you start smoking, anyway?"

"I didn't want to drink," John sighed, "But I wanted to feel better."

Sherlock watched him light up the cigarette and smoke, inhale, and let it out. It was interesting, them smoking together, like a sort of bonding without words.

"Is it still raining?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," John flicked ash into the tray.

"Too bad," Sherlock sighed, "I thought maybe I'd help you solve a case or something, like old days."

"Sherlock, how long are you gonna stay here?" John didn't look at him as he said it. Sherlocks stomach knotted. Did he already want him to leave?

"I can get Mycroft to come get me, any time, just say the word."

John glanced at him and saw genuine fear in Sherlocks eyes. He gulped, "That's not what I meant. I just… Are you gonna move back in? Are we going to tell Lestrade? Are you gonna start solving cases again? I have a lot of questions…"

"I don't really have the answers," Sherlock inhaled the last of his smoke and tossed the cigarette into the garbage. He turned and left the room, John following him.

"I just want things to go back to normal, Sherlock."

"Well, they can't, okay!" Sherlock found himself yelling. _Calm down_, he kept telling himself, _don't fight right now._

John stared at him, his mouth slightly open, "Sherlock…"

"I- I know." Sherlock sat down, "I'm sorry, but I don't know what I'm doing right now. I just… I just don't know."

The burning sensation behind Sherlocks eyes threatened to cry, something Sherlock just didn't do. He held back.

"How long do you want to stay?"

Sherlock looked up at John, "As long as you'll take me."

"Look," John hesitated momentarily and sat down, "We'll figure it out. Together, okay? For now I think you're tired and you need to sleep."

Sherlock nodded, actually agreeing. He wasn't going to cry, it was his body objecting to the lack of sleep, mixed with frustration. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"_God_ no, sleep in my bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"NO."

"Please?" John stared at him, "I feel like if I sleep there, I'll wake up. And you'll be gone."

Sherlock scowled, "I don't want to."

"Don't be a child about this."

"You can't make me." Sherlock curled his knees up.

"Are you five?"

"Shut up, go to sleep."

"I can't, you're on my couch."

Sherlock flashed his friend an amused smile, "We could always sleep in the same bed."

"If that would fix all your emotional problems."

"Sociopath, remember?" Sherlock stood up and went to Johns room, his old room. John smiled, laying down, triumphant.

Two seconds later the door opened, "Are you coming?"

"….That wasn't a legitimate suggestion."

"Maybe I'll leave then," Sherlock pouted.

John sat up and glared at Sherlock over the couch, "Let me get this straight, you want to sleep in the same bed?"

"There's nothing straight about it."

John actually laughed then, hard. Sherlock just smiled at him.

"Alright, I'm coming."

Neither of them really knew how to react to this sudden advancement. Sherlock was truly grateful to not have to be alone, oddly. And John felt maybe a tad weird, but really did just want to be close to Sherlock… maybe in a different way, this time.

"Are you sleeping in your clothes?" John stared at Sherlock, already under the covers on the far side of the big bed.

"Would you rather I sleep naked?"

"No. I have clothes you can bor-"

"No."

"Fine," John sighed, "I guess I'll sleep in mine too. Start a new pattern."

He laid down, on the opposite side from Sherlock, gave him one last look and closed his eyes.

It took Sherlock only five minutes before he was asleep. John took a little longer. There was something weird, in between the sheets with Sherlock. His heart kept beating fast, knowing that there was only maybe a foot in between them. He kept fighting the urges to reach out and touch him. After about twenty minutes of struggling and calming down, he finally fell asleep.

Sherlock was startled awake, too early in the morning for there to be light. Maybe 3.

John was tossing a bit, shining in sweat. His face looked completely shattered, a different broken then normal sadness. This was the face of someone in the coldest of nightmares, the most painful of lives. He jerked.

"John?" Sherlock reached over, and John jerked again, whimpering.

"St- stop," John muttered out.

"What…"

"Sherlock! STOP!" John screeched out in his sleep, "I- I- I can't-"

Sherlock took his hand in his, "John, it's okay, I'm here."

His friend seemed so small in that moment, so vulnerable. So broken, the perfect image of someone with deeper issues. John stopped thrashing, and his breath began to slow down until Sherlock was sure he was fast asleep, peacefully, again. That's when Sherlock saw them.

You wouldn't notice them if you didn't pay attention. The smallest of lines, not white, almost just like… little dents in Johns wrists, healed and gone. Hundreds of tiny, little scars.

Sherlock felt his heart drop. He held Johns hand tight and tried to go back to sleep.

_I didn't want to drink but I wanted to feel better._

Sherlock knew he'd never leave again.


	4. Chapter 3: Glass

Ugh! Longest chapter and I seriously wrote it in a few hours. Legitimately, I enjoyed writing this so much I want to cry. (Especially the last scene) (You'll see.)

A few things. I've got a few Q's on tumblr about Sherlock and John being out of character in this fic.

I'd like to think people are more then one dimensional... But yes, I did it on purpose. In this headcannon, John isn't really that good at hiding the fact he's an emotional wreck without Sherlock. And Sherlock secretly feels the same, he's just kind of like "WTF are all these emotions." So sorry if its weird, don't read it I guess.

I said this before, but, **trigger warnings.** Other warnings, this gets very angsty and um... a little above PG at the end.

Also, I know I want to write more for this story, maybe some smutty stuff, I actually haven't decided yet. I'll also be updating less often because, ya know, I'm in high school and I have stuff to do.

Also: LEAVE ME REVIEWS! I love reviews. I cry with joy every time I get a new review. I'm glad, favorites wise, you all love this story though.

I'm done. Enjoy! -ACR

I don't own Sherlock!

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><p>When John woke up, Sherlock was holding his hand. The tall man was curled up on his side, facing John, fast asleep. But his hand was out, wrapped around Johns and holding onto it for dear life.<p>

And John didn't really know how to feel about that.

He just laid there, felt the sun coming up through the windows and falling down on them. He watched the face of his beautiful friend. Sometimes Sherlock was so beautiful, John wondered if he was human or some kind of God. That would explain a lot. But mostly, those eyes. John had seen a lot of blue eyes, in fact he had a thing for them. But Sherlocks were different. They were catlike, searching. They saw through him, watched every move he made, saw every emotion John had.

"John," Sherlock grumbled suddenly, "Are you watching me sleep?"

"No," John lied and turned away, "Why are you holding my hand?"

Sherlock let go, pulling his hand into him and keeping his eyes closed, "You were having nightmares, it was all I could do to shut you up."

John bit his lip. It had seemed to work, he didn't have too many nightmares last night. Not that he remembered. He felt rested. John stood up and grabbed his robe from his closet, heading for the bathroom, "Get up and eat something?"

"Do I ever eat?" Sherlock opened an eye and watched John vanish into the bathroom.

"No," John yelled back. Sherlock smirked. He was almost very happy with waking up like this, until he remembered the events of last night. His stomach dropped suddenly, the sight of the little cuts in the moonlight suddenly crushing down on him.

He'd only read one thing about cutting, once, for a case. _Controlled pain, possible suicidal thoughts_, Sherlock sighed at that. He didn't even know where to begin with dealing with this. He guess talking to him might be a good start.

He stood up slowly and walked up the bathroom, opening the door and only half-hoping John wasn't naked.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John glared at him, not naked but shirtless.

Sherlock approached him without answer and took his arm up, studying them. Not just his wrists, but stretched up his arm all the way to the crook of his elbow, tiny little scars that you almost could only see if you looked closely, or the light caught them just right.

John pulled it away and hid it behind his back, "What?"

"John…" Sherlock locked his eyes on Johns, and it took his breath away. For once, Sherlock didn't look like he could see through him, just like he was waiting for John to explain. Like a child who didn't understand.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing."

"It's…" John sighed and looked away, "When you left, I read a lot of books to get away from the pain. In one book, I heard about this… different way to get away from the pain. I tried it for a few months, and then I stopped. It's fine now, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock nodded, but he felt his heart cracking a little. It was his fault, of course.

"Can you leave now? I need to shower,"

"Okay," Sherlock almost turned, and then didn't. He reached his hand around Johns face and leaned forward, brushing his lips against Johns forehead. Then he turned and left the room. He didn't know why he did it, it just felt like the right thing to do. He needed John to know that he wasn't going anywhere.

John felt his face go red. He turned and leaned against the sink, sighing deeply. Why was his heart racing? This wasn't right. He got in the shower and let the water run over him for a while. His heart wouldn't stop beating fast, and now tears were running in with the hot water. _He's seen how much of a mess I am._

Sherlock sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes, groaning to himself. He laid back in the bed and decided just to stare at the ceiling for a while.

John got out of the shower and ran his fingers through his hair, tying on his bathrobe. He looked at himself in the mirror and took a deep breath. It was okay. But when he opened the door, Sherlock was still lying in bed.

"Are you asleep again?" He nudged his knee.

"John," Sherlock looked like he was thinking, "Have you ever broken glass?"

"Yeah, as I kid. Why?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and stood up, "How does glass break?"

"Uh," John narrowed his eyes, "It kind of just… shatters."

"Exactly," Sherlock was looking around the room. He went to Johns side table and began rummaging through the drawers.

"Sherlock, what's your point?"

He kept looking through them, "You can't break glass into two even pieces. It cracks shatters. It isn't like paper, an easy or clean break. Lots of little pieces. It can't be broken without being damaged forever."

"Okay? And?"

Sherlock stood up and held up his findings- a thick, sharp razor. John saw it and flushed.

"It's a metaphor," He turned and walked towards the window, opening it and throwing the razor outside. He turned around and his eyes met Johns, "We're glass."

John just stared at him, "I'm sorry, what?"

"We can't break apart," Sherlock walked towards him until they were only a few inches apart, "Because we're damaged if we do."

"So… are you trying to tell me something?" He glanced at the window where Sherlock had just thrown his last good razor.

"I'm trying to say, I understand. You're broken and so am I, but I'm going to fix it, okay?"

"How-"

Sherlock reached down and pulled John into a hug. John rolled his eyes.

"Hugs can't fix everything."

"They can't?" Sherlock murmured sarcastically and pulled away, "Damn it, I thought I understood this emotion thing."

"Sherlock, you're good," John turned around and walked away, "But you can't fix everything. You're a human too."

"Right," Sherlock watched John go to his closet.

"Get out please, I have to get dressed." John wanted to ask why Sherlock had kissed his forehead in the bathroom, but decided not to bring it up. Today was already too weird.

As Sherlock left, Johns phone started ringing. He groaned in frustration, answering it.

"What!"

"Wow, rude." Lestrade muttered from the other side.

"Sorry. There's an idiot in my house."

"What? Who?"

"Uh, a girl." John saved, remembering Lestrade didn't know at the last moment.

"Oh, okay, sure." He could hear Lestrade grinning.

"Did you want something?"

"Ah, yes. Where were you yesterday? You didn't come into work."

Work. Shit. "Right, I stayed home. I didn't feel well."

"Well enough to have a woman at your house at 7 a.m.?"

"Do you want me to come in today?"

"Would you? I need some updates on these bodies."

"Right. I'll be there in thirty minutes." John hung up and pulled his pants on, grabbing a shirt.

Outside, Sherlock was poking through the fridge. He heard Johns door open.

"Jooohn. Why is your fridge so empty?"

"Because there aren't body parts in it anymore?"

"Oh, yes," he looked around, "Have you thought about us being glass yet?"

"No."

"You should, it's true."

"Has anyone ever told you that you act like a five year old?"

"Yes," Sherlock glanced at him as he walked by, "You. On a regular basis."

"Good," John picked his jacket off the table where he had left it last night.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes, work." John smiled at him, "Remember work? Money? I need those things."

"I'll be bored here alone," Sherlock leaned on the table, "Or I could come with you."

"Great plan, and we can tell Lestrade you're alive while we're at it," John muttered sarcastically.

"Okay."

John stopped moving, "Okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock nodded, "We'll tell him."

"Are you serious? Because maybe we should talk about this…"

"Nothing to talk about. I'll tell him, he should know. But only him. No police, just Lestrade."

John searched Sherlocks face to see if he was joking or not. He looked serious, "Okay. Get your jacket."

Sherlock left the room and John retrieved his phone again, hitting re-dial.

"Yes?"

"Lestrade? Can we meet somewhere in private? There's actually something I need to show you…"

* * *

><p>"The return of the great Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade breathed, running his fingers through his hair, "Wow."<p>

"You're already doing better then John," Sherlock leaned back in the stool he was sitting on. Why Lestrade chose to meet in this old, unused room in the basement of the police was a mystery to him. Though he supposed it was more of a good idea then anywhere he'd be recognized.

"I know it's a lot to take in," John patted Lestrade's back awkwardly, "But we wanted you to know, since you were directly involved with Sherlock having to leave."

"Someone was going to kill me," Lestrade shook his grey head, "I wished you had talked to me, Sherlock. Maybe there was a better way, a different solution-"

"There wasn't." Sherlock said sharply. His two friends just stared at him, "I ran possible solutions through my head for hours, it was the only way. There was no need to involve any of you."

"But there was to involve Mycroft?" John rolled his eyes, "You don't even like Mycroft."

"No, but he is my brother and he could help. Plus, he _was_ the one who gave Moriarty the power to crush me in the first place. Yes, I know," He said towards Johns look of surprise.

"Who else knows you're alive? Besides us and Mycroft."

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock mumbled.

"Can we tell Molly? She's just upstairs I could call her…"

"She works here too now?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "You're all getting far too close for my comfort."

"Good to know you're still an asshole."

"Molly knows, anyway," John said.

"What?"

"She helped him fake his death," John sighed.

"Wait, she knew this whole time?" Lestrade frowned deeply.

John met Sherlocks eyes, "They've been seeing each other."

Sherlock rose his eyebrows at Lestrade, "You and Molly? Well that's rather disgusting, aren't you like twice her age?"

"So? Johns older than you." Lestrade glared.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but John cut him off, "Can we stop having this conversation, right now?"

"No," they both said in unison.

"You've been dead for a year, and now you're showing up telling me what to do with my life?"

"God no, just wondering why Molly is raiding coffins." Now John knew Sherlock was doing this just to piss Lestrade off.

"Excuse you!"

"What does John being older than me have to do with anything?"

"Aren't you two," Lestrade glanced at them, "You know."

"Why do people always ask us this?" Sherlock looked baffled.

"Um," John looked away.

"Well you live together! And John was so torn up when you left. I assumed you were at least sleeping together."

"Wow," John rubbed his eyes, "Can we leave now?"

But Sherlock was interested, "Johns my friend, he would be hurt."

"I'm your friend too but you didn't see me moping for months," Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Really, for someone so smart you're really simple sometimes."

"I'm extremely gifted in perception, I think I'd know if something more was happening here."

"Unless you don't want to."

"What?"

"Alright," John stood up, "I am definitely not having this conversation, in the basement of a building, with you two. Goodbye."

"Wait, I'll go with you-" Sherlock stood up, but John just held out his hand to stop him.

"Just… take a different cab. It's safer," He didn't make eye contact, just turned around and left. Sherlock stood there, unsure what to do.

Outside, John hailed a cab. It had started to rain, again. _Shit, how much can it rain?_ He got inside and began rubbing his eyes, trying to keep from crying again. He really was an emotional wreck, Lestrade was right. He guess he'd never heard it said so bitterly, he thought everyone had understood. Nightmares, cutting, smoking, crying, they were all he had done for a year. He didn't work for two months, everyone had kept checking up on him, every day. Even Mycroft, even Harry.

And the truth was, they probably thought he was going to just kill himself. They probably didn't understand why John would react so hard to the death of his flat-mate, for a whole year. Or, they did understand, they saw right through him and everything he was lying about. Every little fake smile, every angry outburst. He probably annoyed them all so much.

And now Sherlock was back, John had never felt more pathetic. Spent his past year of a life crying, feeling lost for someone who hadn't even died- just left him. John didn't blame him. Sherlock would be better off without him, maybe Sherlock should have stayed away and John should have died.

John held back. He wasn't going to cry right now. Things were going to be fine. Even though right now, he felt embarrassed and sad and kind of more alone then he had ever been, it was going to be okay. He used to watch people die, when did he become so fragile?

_Like glass._

Back at the apartment, he brushed past Mrs. Hudson and her greetings quickly, up to the apartment and grabbed a cigarette pack and a book. It was a little past noon when he sat on the chair and began re-reading about medical theories.

Sherlock had stayed and talked to Lestrade, and actually listened when his old friend told him what he saw in Sherlock and John. Soon, Molly joined them and after an overly heartfelt crying on her part, Sherlock went back to 221B. Before he could go up to the apartment, Mrs. Hudson stopped him.

"He looked really upset, Sherlock, maybe you should leave him to himself for a bit." She said with a smile.

Sherlock glanced up the stairs, "Fine. Can I talk to you?"

"Sure, dear." She led him inside and to her old, musty couch. He sat down awkwardly; everything was so small in here.

"Mrs. Hudson," She sat down across from him, "Do you think me and John are a couple, too?"

"Well, no." She shook her head, "I think couple isn't really the right word at all."

"What word would you use, then?"

"Lovers, maybe."

"We don't," Sherlock sighed, "We don't sleep together."

"Well that's your business, isn't it?"

"Then why-"

"Sherlock," she patted at her skirt, "I've lived a very long time, and I've seen a lot of couples and lovers of all sorts. But none were ever as different as you and John."

Sherlock muttered, "How?"

"He looks at you with so much admiration! At least that was it at first, but now I can tell he's in love with you. He's a very strong man, so why did he turn into mush as soon as he thought you were dead?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"And you, well. I had the benefit of knowing you before you met John. You used to be very cold, very prepared to be alone forever. And then you found him, and here you are, in my flat talking about feelings."

Sherlock laughed, "I suppose."

"The old you would have let those gunmen kill me, and Lestrade, and John, because faking your own death would be boring. But you were prepared to really have died, if you had to, am I right?"

"Yes."

"So there's your answer, I suppose. He loves you so very much, we all thought he'd throw himself on knives before he could be okay, so we were always checking up on him. Did you know he didn't visit your grave for two months after you died?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, "Mycroft told me."

"I tried to make him go, he had to get drunk off his ass before he went at all. And as soon as he did, he was better. He started working, solved cases. He was alive again, but only when he could connect to you. He makes enough money to afford a flat twice the size of the one upstairs, but he still lives there."

Sherlock nodded, "What about me?"

"You? You came back," She laughed fondly, "You wanted him to be safe more then you wanted him to be happy. But you still came back, because you couldn't stay away."

Sherlock smiled at her.

Mrs. Hudson pushed herself up, "Would you like some tea, dear?"

Sherlock stood and kissed the tiny woman on the head, "No. I've got some things I have to do."

Five cigarettes and half a book later, the sun was sinking. Sherlock still hadn't come back. John focused on the words, but in the back of his mind, something was nagging. A whispering that his best friend wasn't coming back and John believed it for real this time.

Finally, he put down the book and crushed out his last cigarette. He opened the door and walked down the stairs and outside, towards the alleyway behind the apartment. After a few minutes of looking, he found the razor; sitting on the ground. He picked it up mindlessly and returned to the apartment.

He sat down on the chair in the kitchen and laid the razor out in front of him. He had two choices here. Once more, for old time's sake, momentary control and then having to deal with more emotional pain tomorrow, and maybe forever. Because he wasn't getting better. Or, the second option, one more time, really deep, and no more pain. Ever.

And he knew which one sounded better. But he still sat there for five minutes and tried to get the courage to do it.

As he reached his hand out to pick up the razor, ready to end it all, he heard the front door open. He quickly hid it in his pocket.

"Hello?" It was Sherlock.

John stood up and walked quickly into the other room. Sherlock was standing there, looking normal as usual.

"Where were you?" John coughed.

"Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. A lot of people to see today," Sherlock looked away, "And I felt bad, about earlier. I thought I'd give you some time."

"I didn't think you were going to come back."

"How many times do I have to say it until you believe me? I won't leave again." Sherlock locked onto his eyes, and once again, John lost his ability to speak correctly. "I offended you, and I'm sorry." Sherlock removed his hand from behind his back, and handed a flower to John. A lily. John went red in the face.

"Oh..."

"I got you a flower. I hear that's how people apologize," Sherlock offered a cute smile.

John stared at the flower in his hands like it was a puppy, "Did you just pick it out of a garden?"

"I didn't actually have any money. I walked around looking for it for hours. I liked it."

John choked out a laugh, "You're an idiot."

"Does that mean you forgive me?"

John sighed and took the flower out of Sherlocks hand, "I wasn't really mad."

"You seemed upset," Sherlock frowned.

"I was."

"Why?"

John walked past Sherlock and towards the kitchen to find a vase for the flower, "I just… It hurt for Lestrade to talk about me like I was pathetic, like I wasn't there."

"My fault," Sherlock followed him, "I kept pressing him."

"And it kind of hurt for you to be acting so offended because people think we're together."

"I wasn't offended, I promise, I was curious."

John located the vase and put the lily inside of it, turning to face Sherlock, "Curious, really?"

"Yes."

"Alright, then you're forgiven." The weight of the razor in his back pocket was killing him. He tried to move past, but Sherlock blocked him.

"Is that all you're upset about? You're avoiding something. About me."

"No, I'm not."

"Don't lie." Sherlock focused on him.

John looked up, his heart thumping again. He took a step backwards and leaned against the counter.

"I just… Have you ever thought about it?"

"About… what?"

"A relationship. Not even with me, just… in general."

Sherlock blushed slightly, turning his head away, "I've never been a relationship person."

"I know." Johns stomach felt sick.

"I've never even kissed someone."

"Really?"

"I haven't," Sherlock laughed.

"That's just a little sad," John smiled at him.

"I know," Sherlock locked his eyes again, becoming serious, "I think labels on relationships are… pointless."

"Good for society, though."

"I hate society."

John rolled his eyes, smile fading, "Do you have a point to this conversation?"

"Yes," Sherlock looked momentarily scared.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John searched his face.

"I…" He sighed, "I will never be anyone's boyfriend, or husband, or lover."

John felt his heart crush for some reason, "Okay." He managed to choke out, but his voice broke.

"For a really long time I didn't think I could even have emotions towards people. But you changed that, you did." He took a step closer, "Now I have friends. Anger, jealously, happiness, sadness. Not just bored and excited, not anymore. I used to joke with Mycroft that if there was a heaven, it would be years of me, alone."

"Sherlock-"

"No, stop talking. Let me finish," John closed his mouth, "I won't ever be a boyfriend or whatever. But I want you to know, right now," He took another step closer, closing nearly all the distance between them, "I think I'm in love with you."

Johns heart started pounding so hard in his chest he couldn't breathe, he was getting dizzy…

"What?" He squeaked.

"Please, don't make me say it again." Sherlock whispered.

Sherlock grabbed the counter on either side of John, pinning him, he was so close John thought he was going to die. He wasn't looking him in the eye, looking past him almost, breathing on his neck.

"I think I knew the minute Moriarty told me you'd be dead, but I pushed it away. I acted oblivious because I didn't want to understand it. Please, I know you have to…" He didn't finish the sentence; just let his words drift out and fade.

"Sherlock," John was smiling despite himself, "You suck at feelings."

"I know."

John turned his head; saw Sherlock waiting there, inches away. Sherlocks eyes met his and he raised an eyebrow. John laughed, he was so ridiculous. Sherlock chuckled as well.

"So?" John grinned.

"So?"

John rolled his eyes and one thing flew through his head. _We are glass_. He leaned forward the last few inches and pressed his lips into Sherlock's. Sherlock froze for a second, unsure what to do. And then he was suddenly moving his lips like a pro; sliding his tongue across Johns lower lip and giving him chills. His arms wrapped around Johns lower back and pulled him into him, pressing torso's, turning his head to fit better into him. John found his hands grasping at Sherlock's collar, listening to his own heart slamming and Sherlocks breath coming in short, shallow little exhales.

After a few moments, Sherlock lifted John up and turned them both around, setting John on the table and continuing to kiss him. John spread his legs and Sherlock shifted in between them, his hands gripping hard at Johns back, holding him in place. Johns hands flew to Sherlocks head, burying his fingers in his curly hair. It was amazing, it all felt amazing. John then began grabbing hungrily at Sherlocks jacket, pushing it down off his shoulders. Sherlock flew his hands to the front of John and started undoing his shirt.

He got two buttons undone, maybe three, and lost his jacket, when he stopped. He gripped Johns shoulders and hesitated, finally pulling away.

John gasped for breath and Sherlock leaned forward against his shoulder, "I think we should stop."

"Why?" John gulped.

"I can't-" Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, "I don't think I can control myself here. But we need to be slow about this, I know that."

"Okay," John breathed through it, "I thought you said you've never kissed before?"

"I watch a lot of TV."

"Apparently." John started laughing, and Sherlock joined him. They laughed for a whole minute before calming down. Sherlock took a step backwards and rested his hands on Johns thighs, making eye contact with him.

"Thank you," he leaned forward and planted a kiss on Johns lips, soft this time.

"You're welcome," John smiled.

"I need a cigarette," Sherlock turned and started walking towards the refrigerator, "Maybe food."

"Alright. Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I love you too."

Sherlock turned away from John and just smiled.


	5. Chapter 4: Believe in Sherlock Holmes

Ohhh, another day another Chapter. I really like this one.

Idk which is more awesome. Possessive!Sherlock or Vulnerable!Sherlock

Enjoy this baby.

-ACR

(I dont own Sherlock)

* * *

><p>"You have been wearing the same clothes for like, two days," John stared at Sherlock, who was laying on the bed, "Or more. I don't actually know."<p>

"Two days," Sherlock sighed, pulling out his phone. He quickly sent a text to Mycroft.

**Will be staying here for a while. Need new clothes. Please send them. –SH**

John sat in the bed and looked at Sherlock, "I have a question."

"I have an answer," Sherlock sent the text and quickly opened up another one, this time to Lestrade.

**How do we handle this? How do things get sorted so that I can come out of hiding? –SH**

"At the pool with Moriarty that one time, you must have known he was going to be a big threat to us in the future."

"Yes," Sherlock hit send and looked up at John.

"So why didn't you kill him? You had your gun pointed at the explosives that would have saved the world, saved this… issue."

"Simple, John," his phone received a text, "I could have set off the explosives and killed Moriarty but that also would have killed me, and you, in the process."

"So? You pretended to die anyway."

"Yes, but I am alive. And so are you."

"True."

**I'll send clothes. Should I just send all of your belongings, too? I guess I'm asking, is this a permanent move? –M**

"So now we are here, alive, and Moriarty is dead. It was a game of chess, slow moving, but I won."

"A game? Really?" John frowned, "It didn't feel much like a game to me. It was life or death, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up at him, "Yes, it was. But who's life? Not Moriartys, not even mine. It was a game, John, for your life. I won it and now we're reaping the benefits, alive for another day."

John knew he was right. Sherlock fought for him all along. Risked the smearing of his name, didn't care when Lestrade arrested him. Only when he thought John didn't trust him, he began to panic. He had died for John to live, and John almost killed himself an hour ago. His head was spinning.

**I will be staying. Permanently. Circumstances have changed. –SH**

"And what about us now?" John asked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the question.

"Us?"

"Sherlock." John pleaded with his eyes.

"I don't do boyfriend," Sherlock tapped mindlessly at his phone,"I told you that."

"I'm not saying boyfriend. Or any sort of title if you don't want it, but we need… rules. I suppose."

**What sort of circumstances? –M**

"Rules," Sherlock hummed deeply, "Rules… What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know." And he really didn't.

**Circumstances that are my business and Johns. Send clothes by morning, thank you. –SH**

He threw his phone aside and sat up, leaning towards John. He wrapped his hand around his friends blonde head, catching his fingers in his hair, and kissed him. It was soft, but it said everything without words. John blushed deeply and Sherlock pulled away.

"How about this. We do what we want with each other, and it's no one's fucking business."

Hearing Sherlock swear was almost arousing. John smiled, "Okay, but…"

"But?"

"But, I mean… I don't want us to see any other people."

"I don't see any other people anyway,"

"Yes," John frowned. He couldn't really explain it. He wanted Sherlock to remain loyal, but that went without saying, he would do it anyway. As for John, he knew he'd never have to date another girl again if Sherlock was here.

Sherlock understood, without any words. John wanted him to say it, though. He leaned forward again, sitting up onto his knees and pushed John down into the bed. He straddled him and leaned down, dashing his tongue in and out from between Johns lips, moving accordingly. His companion whimpered from underneath him, and he smiled slyly. He took Johns wrists and pinned them down rather forcefully, and continued to kiss him. After a few moments of heavy panting, he pulled away and met Johns eyes.

"You're mine, and you aren't allowed to see anyone else."

"Okay," John didn't need to think about it. The possession in Sherlocks words took over, and he fought his wrists to get a better stance. Sherlock looked startled by the sudden aggression and fell over when John pushed him. Then John was over him, pinning him into the bed, kissing him and pulling on his bottom lip. John moved his knee between Sherlocks legs and rubbed upwards softly. Sherlock let out a tiny gasp.

"J-John, stop," John ignored him, leaning forward to unbutton his white shirt. Flawless skin was under it, a chest that drove John insane. He put his mouth to Sherlocks long throat and slid is tongue across the skin, before biting a little too hard.

Sherlock moaned and his hands flew to blonde hair. John smiled and rubbed his knee between Sherlocks legs once more. Sherlock himself was quickly losing the ability to think clearly, which made fear begin to take over. He dug his long fingers into Johns shoulders and pushed with most of the strength he could muster.

John flew up a tumbled back onto his knees. He looked surprise, perching himself between Sherlocks legs.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked away and breathed deeply, trying to regain control. He put his hands to his face, mostly out of embarrassment, and sighed for a few seconds. John remained quiet.

"We can't do this right now."

"Why not?" John grimaced, "You don't want to…" Sherlock met his eyes and John saw the traces of fear there, real fear. Oh.

"Just…"

"You're a virgin," John smiled, shaking his head, "I forgot. I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked so adorable John had to try hard not to laugh. He was a mixture of flustered and horny with scared and embarrassed. John wanted to just stay here, in his best friends weakness, forever.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock was shaking his head, his eyes squeezed shut. He looked so adorably frustrated.

"Don't be sorry," John moved and fell into bed next to him, "There's nothing wrong with it. I won't push."

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, trying desperately to regain composure, "Thank you for being patient with me."

"I thought you were dead for a year. I'm just happy to lay here with you."

Sherlock sighed and moved so his temple was pressed into Johns shoulder, "Okay."

"I-" John closed his eyes, "Nevermind."

"What?" Sherlock frowned, "Aren't we past not saying things?"

"It's hard," John looked out the window at the black sky, "I had so many things I wish I had said before you died. So many things I wished I could have done. And now you're here, I can't remember any of them. Just one, something I couldn't tell you. Something I couldn't tell anyone because I thought if I did, I'd never recover."

"What is it?" Sherlocks voice was like a whisper.

Johns hands shot to his face, rubbing his eyes and sighing, "I'm so in love with you. I'll never be able to love anyone more."

Sherlock smiled. In a way, this wasn't really new. Maybe he'd always known how John felt, in the back of his mind when he was trying to ignore it. But it felt different to hear him say it now, because he knew how he felt too. That's where the real fear was; his own feelings in place of where he had never felt anything before.

"I spent this past year by myself. Mycroft has this huge house in the country, where I could be all alone. He had all these violins sent to me, expensive ones, he even had a piano that I learned to play. And I played so much music, but I always wished I had my old violin back, every time. Its strings were familiar to me. He also had a library, so many books. I learned about everything, kept it filed in my head, all the things I didn't think were important before and now I have them memorized. I read philosophical journals, books about wars and history, even about… Bloody space," he laughed nervously, "Mycroft sent me evidence for federal cases, in America and here and wherever else. He only visited sometimes, just him, no one else. Our whole family thinks I am dead, after all. It was twelve months of being alone. Me and my work, me and pure knowledge."

"Sounds like Sherlock heaven." John tried to laugh, but it died in his throat.

"It should have been. At first, it was. I wouldn't sleep for days until I got things right, solved cases that were decades old. I only ate when I wanted to and no one was there to tell me I was being unhealthy, no stupid people there to irritate me." Sherlock let out a shaky sigh, "But I started to realize how alone I was, and how I didn't like it after all. Most importantly, I never stopped thinking about you. Mycroft sent me texts about some things. The first time you visited my grave, the first time you solved a case, when you started moving out my things. And I began to feel sad. Actually sad. He covered up how bad things really were, I now realize. Everyone is, to protect you, or make me not feel so bad. Mrs. Hudson lied to me, told me it took you two months to visit my grave, but I actually know it took you four."

John didn't say anything.

"I wondered why it took you so long, but I started to think you just didn't care to come. Mycroft told me you started dating some girl, and now I know he made her up. But I think he told me that to make me think you were moving on, when you weren't. In my head I was so scared that you had moved on, that you were over me and that I'd really never see you again. And if I did, you'd have forgotten me. The thoughts made me insane, I didn't want you to move on. About six months in, I took my one and only trip into a nearby town, and bought as many drugs as I could get hold of, and just spent the next few weeks smoking and injecting myself and snorting, for any side effect that could make me not feel any more pain."

John felt sick.

"Nothing really worked, as nothing ever had. I gave up on the drugs and slept for three straight days. After I did, I felt better. I ate real food and enjoyed it, I felt better. I spent another few weeks watching crap television, just until I felt emotionally secure again. Then I began burying myself in work again, cases. Solved so many of them. I stopped asking Mycroft how you were; I really didn't want to know. And then about a week ago, he told me you were engaged to that nonexistent girl. I didn't know if I believed him, it all seemed so out of character for you. I decided to come and see for myself and… Here we are."

"So, what are you trying to say?"

"Just as you spent so much time wishing you had said things, so did I. I used to think heaven would be being alone, and now I know that hell is any life without you."

John closed his eyes and found Sherlocks hand. He wrapped his fingers around the cold ones. Sherlock felt their warmth and thought they were the most comforting reassurance he had ever felt.

"It's funny, really," Sherlock said, "I wanted you to move on, I really did. I wanted you to be alive and fine, but part of me never wanted you to be happy without me. And now I come back and I see, the scars and the smoking and the nightmares, I know I caused them. Sometimes I think it would have been better for you if we never met."

Never met? John couldn't actually remember what living before he met Sherlock was like. He knew it was boring.

"You're amazing," John sighed, "You've always been the most brilliant man I've ever known. I'm glad you are telling me this, but what is done is done. We both made mistakes, we've both been half living. Now we are here, together, and we can either mope about what happened or we can leap for it. "

"I'm in love with you," Sherlock forced his eyes closed, he didn't like admitting that. "I want to stay here forever."

John gulped, "Me too."

They sat within sheltered silence for a few minutes. Sherlock wondered why he felt so hollow now, laying out his emotions like that was supposed to be good. He wondered if things were going to change now. He wasn't really fond of change, not with John. That's why he always avoided remembering the names of Johns girlfriends, they all morphed into one person he generally hated, or was jealous of. He couldn't remember. He wanted to run around, solving cases again and making everyone mad. He wanted to move all his things back in and live with John until they died. He just didn't know anymore.

John was thinking, this was the start of something, but what it was, he didn't know. Sherlock had maybe been as vulnerable as he was, maybe worse, all along. He didn't feel so alone anymore, he needed to throw out this razor forever.

He moved away from Sherlock and stood up, "I'm gonna get ready for bed, alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock sat back and watched him gather clothes before vanishing into the bathroom. He reached for his phone and found two texts waiting for him.

**I hope being with him is worth it. The moving truck will be there in the morning. –M**

The second was from Lestrade:

**Let's keep a low profile for a while. You can help John solve cases, stay in town. I'll be keeping my eyes and ears open, in a month if things seem fine, we can begin to tell people.**

Sherlock didn't know if that would be enough. Suddenly, an idea sparked into his head. He searched down his list for a contact he hadn't used in a very long time, but still kept in his phone. He composed a text and sent it.

**I need your help. Meet me in front of Bakers Street at midnight, if you're still around. –SH**

John came out of the bathroom in sweats and a T-shirt, teeth freshly brushed. He turned off the light and pulled himself under the sheets of the bed. Sherlock watched him carefully, keeping controlled emotions. John stared at the ceiling for a few minutes; trying to ignore the blue eyes he knew were watching him. Finally, he gave in a turned his head.

"What's wrong?" Sherlocks voice was deep, serious.

"Nothing," He turned on his side and offered up a smile, "Really."

Sherlock looked doubtful, but pushed the thoughts away. They watched each other from opposite sides of the bed, both suppressing urges to move.

Finally Sherlock gave in, "Would you come over here?"

John laughed lightly and rolled his eyes, scooting closer. His taller friend did the same. With only a few inches between them, John laid his arm out to hold his head. Sherlock stopped and watched him carefully. After a second, he knelt up on his elbow and held Johns arm. His eyes narrowed and he searched across all of the scars, this time John let him. After a few seconds, Sherlock leaned forward and did something John wouldn't soon forget.

He pressed his lips against the scars, in a deep, lasting kiss on them. John raised his eyebrows, it was one of the greatest human gestures he had ever seen Sherlock complete. After Sherlock raised his head, he leaned closer and pressed them to Johns cheek. John let out a shallow breath and watched Sherlock fall back onto the pillow.

They looked at each other for a few minutes.

"You're so weird," John finally laughed, "You really are a five year old."

"I don't appreciate that reference," Sherlock scowled, "I am not a child."

"Yes, you are." John searched his face in the darkness, "You're scared of sex."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are."

"I'm going to smother you in your sleep," Sherlock threatened. John laughed and turned on his back.

"I'm going to sleep, goodnight."

Sherlock found Johns warm hand under the covers and held it with both hands. After ten minutes, John was fast asleep. Sherlock, was wide awake. He rotated between watched Johns rising chest to watching the clock at the side of the bed. And hour passed, two hours. And when it almost was at Midnight, Sherlock let go of Johns hand and silently drifted out of bed.

He found his jacket in the darkly lit kitchen and then his shoes. He was out the door and down the stairs before midnight even struck, and as he walked into the fresh night air, he smelled rain and his heart was beating fast. Before him was a long, sleek black car. He glanced up and down the street before getting in.

Irene Adler was dressed in one of the tightest red dresses Sherlock had ever seen, balancing a drink of Whiskey in her hand. She gave him a sickly sweet smirk as he shut the door.

"Sherlock Holmes, alive after all. Would you like something to drink?"

"Not at the moment, thank you," He folded his hands in front of him, "I have some business I'd like to discuss. It won't take long."

She nodded, "I hope this wasn't an excuse to get together, I can't be your late night sex routine, Sherlock."

He rolled his eyes, "No."

"Is it about your sudden appearance into the world of the living?"

"Yes."

"I see. Let me guess; you're back for good and you want people to know, but you don't want it to become a big thing."

"Yes. And I want to insure the safety of my friends."

"You won't have to worry about that," She laughed bitterly, "It's been a long time hunting, but I have long since made sure the people working under Moriarty have been… taken care of."

"What?"

"With the help of your brother, of course." She crossed her legs and sipped her drink

"He knows you're alive," Sherlock raised a brow at her, "Why would you do that?"

"You saved my life, the least I could do was value yours. Call it… Revenge, perhaps. Killing what was left of Moriarty's legacy after he destroyed yours."

He watched her. "Thank you."

"You're so welcome, sweety," She inched closer to him, "But, it was the least of what I could do."

He narrowed his eyes, "There's… something else."

"Yes."

"Something that could help clear my name, you have it."

She laughed and leaned back, "It was a domino effect really, beginning in the underground of graffiti covered streets. A single word representing a phrase. People passed it, saw it, it spread like a disease. From the streets to the forums of the internet, even snaking its way into the hearts of our beloved citizens. A rebellion, a religion. It lives in their hearts. One utterance of the word, and armies form underneath it."

"A word?" He watched her, feeling mildly impressed.

"Believe," She looked out the window, "Put your trust, your heart, into Sherlock Holmes. It has separated the world into two groups; those who believe Moriarty was real, and those who don't. But it puts doubt into people's heads. If enough people start to believe, others begin to question if what they know is right."

"Interesting. Once again, Miss Adler, you fail to disappoint me, and continue to amaze."

"What do you need, Sherlock? A way to be alive again? Because I can provide it, just tell me what you need."

He sighed, "A statement, a sign. Something new, like that word, but different. Strike the hearts of your believers, make the world know that I live."

"I will. By morning, the undergrounds will know you are alive. Within the next few days, it will spread like wildfire. A phrase, maybe, something simple," She tapped her head, "But when it begins to stretch, it will touch on everything. Old fans, old enemies. The police force, on rumors, will look for you. It may not be as… dramatic of a return as you want if you are caught and arrested."

"How can I not be arrested?"

"You might have to discuss with your friend, Lestrade was it? There isn't any proof that anything you did was a lie, a fraud. Moriarty is a ghost, but so was Rich Brook. No one could prove either of them existed; all they had was a body."

Sherlock held his hands to his mouth, "Believe."

"They do believe, Sherlock," She got closer, "They do. No one can convict you of anything but a fake death."

"What if people look for me? They'll look here first, they have to."

"Then leave. Get a hotel or something," She put his hand on his thigh.

He watched he out of the corner of his eyes, "And you'll have it done by morning?"

"Yes," She breathed.

"Then it is settled, I'll be gone by then," He opened the door and got out of the car, ignoring her passes at him. She gave him one more smile, and he offered up his last words, "Thank you."

"Always," She shut the door. The car drove off into the night, and Sherlock returned upstairs.


	6. Chapter 5: Loyalty and Rumors

Hello you guys! New Chapter, longest chapter. About 10k words, don't be afraid!

It's one in the morning and I have school tomorrow, oh god.

But I finished it. And yet, not even close to being done...

This includes days 1-4 of hiding out, the next part will have 5-7 probably.

Enjoy! -ACR

I don't own Sherlock. (Wish I did though.)

* * *

><p>It wasn't raining when John got up. A miracle, maybe. It wasn't sunny either just… a day. When he woke up, he found Sherlock was already awake, shoving Johns clothes into his only brown suitcase.<p>

"Ah, what are you doing?" John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stared at his… boyfriend? Person. Friend.

"We're leaving. Not for long, just a few days."

"Why? Where?"

"I'll explain it all soon," He zipped the suitcase up and tossed it to John, "Come on."

"Wait, you can't just wake me up and tell me to go. Let me get dressed, have a few minutes."

"Then have them! But we have to go."

John stood up and quickly got dressed while Sherlock raced around, mostly grabbing cigarettes and Johns laptop. John frowned at him as he came back out.

"Sherlock, are you having an attack? Is this some sort of Asperger's thing?"

"Shut up," Sherlock sighed, "Let's go. Now."

John took his suitcase and followed Sherlock down the stairs. At the bottom, they met Mrs. Hudson. She offered them a smile just for a second and then frowned.

"Where are you two off to?"

"We've got to go, but we'll be back in a few days. I hope you'll keep quiet about my being alive?"

She grew a look of sternness on her, "Of course."

Sherlock gave her a nod and a quick smile before opening the front door. Past him, John saw a black car that could only belong to Mycroft.

"I thought you were moving in, now we're on our way out?" John pressed himself against Sherlocks shoulder, "What's going on?"

"John," Sherlock turned to look at him, "You trust me?"

He searched his tall friends face, "With my life."

"Then get in the car," He handed him the suitcase, "Go."

"What? You aren't coming?" But before Sherlock could give him an answer, he was being pushed outside, the door closing firmly behind him. He let out a hollow breath and walked towards the car, but not before an eerie feeling began coming over him. He glanced around, and quickly saw what he was feeling. At least twenty pairs of eyes, were gathered around, down the street, in windows, sitting on stairs, in cars, watching him closely. They sent shivers down his spine. He quickly ducked into the black car and was shocked to find Mycroft sitting inside, with a black suitcase next to him.

"What's going on?" He shut the door and set down his own bag, "Where's Sherlock?"

"He'll be joining us shortly," Mycroft tapped the window and the car began driving off, "After he jumps a few roofs and ducks into alleys. Can't risk being seen at this point, not with so many people watching you."

John narrowed his eyebrows, "…Right. And why are people watching us?"

"Goodness, he really didn't tell you anything, did he? Well," Mycroft pulled out his phone and clicked through it a few times before reaching over and handing it to John, "I think you'll find that keeping secrets has never been London's most keen effort."

John took the phone and looked at it, his mouth dropping open. It was a wall, a huge brick one, splattered with blood-red graffiti. On it were the words SHERLOCK LIVES in wonderfully scary text.

He handed the phone back to Mycroft, "What's happening?"

"These have been appearing all over town within the past six hours. Of course, they were noticed. Its only whispers right now, but they will grow into roars. Needless to say, people are eager to believe, and it's all falling wonderfully into my brother plans."

"Sherlock did this?" John frowned, why wasn't he told?

"Actually, I'd say this was Irene's doing. She has quite a hold on underground rebellions these days. Her own… new protection."

"Irene?" John felt his shoulders tense up, "As in Irene Adler? She's in town, she's _alive_? And Sherlock is… working with her?"

"It would seem so. It's all rather clever, isn't it? Create a superstition that he's alive, and people will be bowing at his feet before it's even confirmed. My brother always was extremely… clever." Mycroft's phone beeped and he glanced down at it. He turned his head towards his driver, "Two more block, please. Sherlock is waiting."

"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand. Where are we going?"

"Well first, we'll have to make a tiny detour. I've had people following me all day; it's becoming tiresome. Sherlock sure does know how to make a lasting impression with stalkers. Then you and he will be delivered to a house, a small one on the edge of London that I own for purposes just as this. You'll stay there for a few days and no one will know about your whereabouts except a small list of people who are pawns, needing to fall into play as Sherlock chooses. Then, once people are at a standstill and we know the police won't arrest him, Sherlock will make his debut among the living once again."

The car stopped and the door opened, Sherlock stepped inside. He looked slightly out of breath, as if he had been running to get here, which he probably had.

"What are we talking about?" He said deeply. John decided to ignore him.

"Who will know where we are?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, and myself."

"Great. So everyone who knows we're alive."

"Oh," Sherlock glanced between them, "I told you to wait. I wanted to explain the situation to John."

"Nonsense Sherlock, you shouldn't withhold any secrets from John." Mycroft met Sherlocks eyes and gave him a meaningful look.

"Yeah Sherlock," John looked out the window, "You shouldn't."

They drove in silence for about twenty minutes before John realized they didn't seem to have any sort of destination. They drove through alleys and up and down the same streets until finally they pulled into a parking lot of an abandoned building and stopped. Sherlock grabbed the suitcase next to Mycroft and gave his brother a wink.

"Thanks for the ride, brother. Do keep in touch, won't you?"

"Get out of my car, Sherlock," Mycroft frowned.

"Come, John." John grabbed his own case and opened the door, following the black haired man. There was only one other car in the lot, an old, broken down, silver one. Standing next to it, in sunglasses and an odd smirk, was Lestrade.

"This is your car?" Sherlock asked, accusing without words. John watched Mycrofts black one speed off into the road.

"Yes, shut up and get inside." Lestrade answered. Sherlock and John did as they were told, hopping in the back. Sherlock took his and Johns cases and tossed them into the front seat, then proceeded to lay down with his head on Johns lap.

"What are you doing?" John said, trying to hide the fact he was blushing.

"Mycrofts car had blacked out windows, this one doesn't. I can't risk being seen, even in the back of a car."

Lestrade visibly rolled his eyes and started driving out the opposite way Mycroft did, "Yes, I'm sure that's why."

Sherlock chose to ignore that remark, "What the word with the police, Greg?"

"A few of them have heard rumors, but Sergeant Donovan is the only one who has come to me about it. I told her I can't do anything about rumors, and mostly shooed her off. Eventually people are going to notice that John won't be coming to work, though."

"I'm not allowed to go to work?" John piped up. He was having troubles figuring out what do with his hands. He couldn't put them on his lap because Sherlock was there. Part of him wanted to rest them on Sherlocks chest and in his hair, but he was still angry about the fact he hadn't told him anything about this plan. So he just folded them on his chest and ignored the blue eyes looking at him.

"I can control the police," Lestrade said, making a turn, "But I can't control the general people. I can't do anything to stop people from following you or kidnapping you for information, everyone knows you are the number one target."

"Yes," Sherlock said, "Today I didn't get in the car with you so people would think I hadn't been at the apartment. That should eliminate the possibility that Mrs. Hudson knows anything. Our number one priority is to keep you out of the crossfire of this."

John was silent, choosing to look out of the window again. People passed by normally, but he knew it wasn't. Whispers were there, thoughts in the back of their heads; the great Sherlock Holmes is alive. He wondered how long this would take. After twenty or so minutes, people became less frequent, as did the buildings, replaced by odd looking houses.

Finally Lestrade pulled in front of a house. It was small, maybe two bedrooms, but one floor. The yard was surrounded by a white fence, it all looked peaceful enough.

"Alright boys, this is it." Lestrade frowned, "I have your numbers, and I'll be in touch."

"Thank you," Sherlock sat up. He seemed really sincere about it, "I mean it. Thank you for all of this."

Lestrade didn't look like he knew how to reply, "Uh, no problem."

John got out of the car and grabbed their cases. He gave Lestrade a nod and turned to walk towards the house, Sherlock at his heels. At the door, Sherlock pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door, letting them in wordlessly.

It seemed fairly normal for a Holmes house. Having been to Mycrofts house and seen how professional it was, and then having lived with Sherlock long enough to know you couldn't walk two steps without seeing something weird, it was absolutely average. The front room had a nice, beige sofa and a TV on a table. The kitchen had all the kitchen essentials along with a metal, black table and two chairs. John quickly found the bedrooms; both containing a small trundle bed, the type with mattresses underneath you could pull out, and a dressing table with drawers. The single bathroom was fairly large, with both a tub and a shower. John sighed.

"I'm going to change clothes," Sherlock took the black case from Johns hand, brushing it on purpose. John didn't say anything, just watched Sherlock vanish into one of the rooms. He went to the other one and began unpacking the clothes into drawers, and then opened up his laptop and sat down in bed.

He found the fastest search engine and typed it, "Sherlock Lives."

It brought up a ton of results, but the first was the most popular; a blog entry of a woman in London, a reporter maybe? He clicked on it.

_If you've woken up this morning and you're an avid follower of London news and rumors, you've no doubt heard these. Signs appearing all over London, graffiti on the underground walls of London streets, fliers on trees, written in bathrooms. Sherlock Lives.  
>A year ago, you couldn't open a newspaper without seeing news of Sherlock Holmes; the greatest detective in history, they said! With nothing but his knowledge and perception, he solved unsolvable case after unsolvable case. From Reichenbach to Baskerville, his name was on the tongues of everyone. People couldn't wait to get their hands on Sherlock Holmes, it seemed. He flew from case to case for months, but avoided journalists and reporters, becoming one of Londons greatest mysteries. And then it all changed with the case of Moriarty; a man who had managed to break into three of the highest-security places in London at the same time.<br>The case was a riot! Sherlock Holmes himself made an appearance and a testimony, proving to the world of his antisocial and yet extremely intelligent behavior. And yet, with the juries final decision, Jim Moriarty was found not guilty and was free once again.  
>And then one night, Sherlock Holmes was arrested under suspicion of making up the cases he had solved, before he pulled a gun on the police and ran! Then, a story that Moriarty was actually an actor named Richard Brook, hired by Holmes, was published. The rebellions began, no evidence appeared that Sherlock was either guilty or innocent, no record of Richard Brook of James Moriarty anywhere on earth.<br>And on the day of the stories release, Sherlock Holmes jumped from a building to his death in the world's most affecting suicides in history. His body was found, quickly hidden by police, as was the body of Brook/Moriarty, both hidden without word. No stories were released of their suicides, but no one could doubt its suspicious nature. John Watson, Holmes' partner and room-mate (and rumored lover), refused to give a statement of the deaths, only releasing a blog post on his infamous blog that said; "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."  
>This sprung forth a great and secret uprising, a phrase; I Believe in Sherlock Holmes. Among them were the thousands of people who believed Sherlock was innocent, including many higher up officials, and the rebellions only calmed down after months after the suicides took place.<br>No greater uprising has come until today's, words flying around that Sherlock Holmes lives. Are they rumors, only now appearing because of the one-year anniversary of the great detectives death two days ago? Is it a practical joke, meant to start another rebellion within the streets? Or a deeper, more intellectual question; is it true? Was the death of Sherlock Holmes covered up because it didn't happen at all?  
>We may never truly know, or perhaps all will be revealed with time. For now, the evidence is clear. Sherlock Holmes is not yet dead to his believers, the police are hushing up, and John Watson seems to have mysteriously vanished. What do you believe?<em>

John finished reading it, both amazed and worried. He looked up and saw Sherlock watching him from the doorway.

"Interesting, isn't it? All of this, amazing how fast people come together to rebel."

"Interesting is one word," John shut his laptop and stood up, "I'm hungry, is there food around?"

"Yes," John tried to walk by, but Sherlock grabbed his arm to stop him, "Is something wrong?"

"No," John lied. Sherlock let him go, though he knew he didn't believe him. If John was mad, he'd talk about it. If he didn't want to talk about it, Sherlock knew to leave him alone.

He didn't really know what he was more angry about; the fact Sherlock didn't tell him about his plan or the fact Sherlock had gone to Irene for help. Or maybe the fact Sherlock didn't ask for HIS help because, let's face it, John was pretty useless to him.

John found an apple in the kitchen and sat at the table eating it. Sherlock came in and didn't say anything, just sat down across from him and twiddled with his phone.

"How long will we be here, then?"

"A few days, a week at most."

"Alright," John sighed.

"Others will start to come. That's part of the plan too."

"It is?"

"Yes," Sherlock looked at him, "People will be watched, people who know me, people who are the most obvious to know where I am. And then, slowly, they'll start to disappear, come here. It's mostly to get people talking."

"But… There's only two bedrooms."

"This house was built specifically as a hideout by Mycroft," Sherlock smiled, "You don't think he included a secret basement?"

"Oh, alright. So it begins, then."

**Day One**

It was weirdly quiet, mostly. John sat inside on the computer or sat outside and smoked and listened to Sherlocks phone go off every five minutes, texts from Mycroft and Lestrade and god knew who else. He would answer the phone for calls, too, when they came. John listened but he only heard little answers from Sherlock, things like "Yes" and "I see" and "Keep trying." John mostly kept his eye on the internet for news while Sherlock mostly ignored him.

When Sherlock finally approached him, it was with an idea.

"Have you updated your blog since I died?" Sherlock asked, but he knew the answer.

"No," John said, refreshing the news page he was on, while reading a conspiracy theory about Mycroft's government and Richard Brook in another tab.

"Maybe you should do that now," He walked away.

John went onto his blog and opened up to write a new text post. Within the last few hours his blog had over a thousand hits, but he hadn't even written anything in over a year. He wondered what exactly he could write. Maybe something short, simple, an answer. Like, "Yes." He could even write "Sherlock Lives" but that seemed like it gave too much away. He wanted something simple, maybe push the uprising further. He smiled and began to type.

**Met with an old friend today. It's been a long time.**

He hit submit and closed his blog, returning to what he was doing. Within minutes, he heard Sherlocks phone blast from the other room, and heard Sherlock answer it. "Yes?... Mhmm… I told him to write it….. Of course."

Sherlock didn't say anything to John after that, but John knew he had done well.

When night came, John ate and Sherlock didn't, locked up in his room discussing plans with Irene. John knew it was Irene because Sherlock didn't make any attempt to hide his conversations with anyone else. After he was done eating, he took his time getting ready for bed, listening to the deep mumbles of Sherlocks voice through the wall, hearing him laugh every so often. Jealousy was growing deep inside of John, making him feel sick. He turned on the fan and heaved into the toilet for a few minutes before brushing his teeth and going to bed.

They slept is separate rooms that night, at least until John started screaming from nightmares and Sherlock came to bed with him. He pulled him in close and John forgot, just for that moment, that he was angry.

**Day Two**

Sherlock was gone when John woke up, but not without clear evidence that he had been there. He found him on phone in the living room, looking like he hadn't slept at all. He was wearing a deep frown, the first indication that something was wrong. John leaned against the wall and waited until he hung up.

"What's wrong?"

"There was a break-in on Bakers Street today," Sherlock sat down on the couch and put his hand to his mouth, as he often did when he was thinking, "Nothing was taken, they were just looking for us."

"Oh," John nodded, "It's working, then."

"Indeed. I'm worried for Mrs. Hudson, though, so she'll be joining us today. Not what I planned, but part of the plan nonetheless."

"Good, great," John kind of liked the idea of her joining them; it would maybe release a lot of the tension.

"I'll give her my room, don't want her to walk up anymore stairs than she has to. And the basement only has three rooms."

"Do you want to sleep with me, then?" John offered. He was still pretty angry, but he couldn't sleep soundly without Sherlock next to him. That much was obvious at this point.

"If you'd like," Sherlock met his eyes.

"I would."

"Fine," He stood up, "I'll set up the trundle bed, just so people don't think-"

"That we're sleeping together, yeah." John looked away, not really focusing on anything. Sherlock walked past him and he went to sit down on the couch. He wanted to cry, again. There wasn't much he hated more than fighting with Sherlock, maybe nothing at all.

He closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock moving things into his room and fixing the bed, and then he heard nothing at all. He opened them and saw Sherlock standing a few feet in front of him, watching him like a hawk, looking kind of… sad.

"What?"

"You're upset with me," Sherlock walked forward and gently nudged Johns leg with his foot, "And I don't like it at all."

John didn't say anything, but Sherlock was suddenly on his knees. He crossed his arms on Johns lap and rested his head there. John smiled even though he didn't want to, Sherlock seriously acted so much like a child. After a moment, John ran his fingers through Sherlocks messy hair, just smiling to himself.

Sherlocks phone was ringing from where he had put it by the TV.

"Sherlock, your phone."

"Let it ring,"

John laughed, "Don't be an idiot, it could be important."

"It isn't. Not as important as this," Sherlock mumbled.

John stared down at him until the phone stopped ringing and he lifted his curly head. His eyes met Johns and he pulled himself up, sitting on the couch with him, and wrapped an arm around his back, pulling him close. John rested his head on Sherlocks shoulder and let his eyes drift closed.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?" Sherlock breathed into his hair, "And don't say nothing."

"I wished you had told me about your plan, before throwing me into it."

"I literally only had it figured out after you fell asleep, and spent most of the night making the arrangements for it. If I had known, I would have told you."

"Oh," John sighed, "What about Irene? Why… Why her?"

"She had the connections I needed, and needless to say, I consider her a friend."

"I don't know if I like it," John muttered.

"Why?" Sherlock moved his head, "John Watson, are you jealous?"

"Hmm, let me think about that. The only person who made you a bloody mess for a month is back and helping you. Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I am jealous." John pulled away from Sherlock and crossed his arms.

"You made me a mess for a year," Sherlock pointed out.

"Hmm…"

"Well, I guess now's a bad time to tell you she'll be joining us in a few days."

"What! Sherlock!"

"Sorry," Sherlock tried and failed to hide his amusement, "It's part of my plan, really. I won't even talk to her, just say the word."

"I just don't want her here."

"John," Sherlock leaned over, grabbing his companions face between his hands, "Why not?"

"What if she tries to put the moves on you?"

"I'll stop her? Didn't I say I'd be yours, and only yours?"

John sighed, "And I still don't understand why."

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John, softly, and then spreading his lips to take Johns tongue. His small friend let out a tiny whimper.

"I love you, what do you need to be certain? Do you want me on my knees?" He growled.

"A proposal? I thought you said you'd never be a husband?" John mused.

"I wasn't suggesting that," Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gave the most amazing smirk John had ever seen. He couldn't breathe for a second. He almost said yes and then the doorbell rang.

"Fuck," They breathed at the same time, and then laughed loudly. Sherlock stood up and went to the door, opening it to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. They looked at him and he sighed, throwing his hands up.

"You couldn't have taken five more minutes to drive around!"

"What?" Lestrade frowned.

John elbowed Sherlock and smiled at them, "Nothing. Please, come in."

They all walked in together and Sherlock took Mrs. Hudson's bags and showed her to her room, while Lestrade stood in the living room with John and looked around.

"It's a bit small, isn't it? How are we all supposed to live here?"

"Secret basement, apparently. Though I haven't actually seen it yet."

"Oh," Lestrade looked around, "How many bedrooms up here?"

"Two."

Lestrade stood in silence and then grew a big smile, "Sherlock sleeping in your room, eh?"

"Shut up, there's two beds."

"One more then you'll be needing."

"I will hit you in the face."

Lestrade was laughing as Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson rejoined them. The small woman smiled delicately up at them.

"Shall I make some tea, then? And you two can explain exactly what is going on, I didn't get many details from Mycroft, I never do."

"Yes, tea please." John smiled at her. She went to the kitchen, and Lestrade began to exit towards the door.

"Change of plans, Lestrade," Sherlock glanced at him, "One person a day."

"Alright… Molly tomorrow?"

"Yes,"

Lestrade left, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Molly? Exactly how many people will be joining us, Sherlock?"

"Molly tomorrow, Lestrade Friday," He turned around and pushed John onto the couch, sitting next to him, "Irene Saturday and Mycroft Sunday."

"Mycroft? Oh for god's sake, no one will stop arguing by the time Monday comes."

"Yes, but the sudden disappearance of one of the most important men in Britain will certainly get people talking. I figure by a week from now, I can make my appearance as… not dead."

"Okay, and what then?"

Sherlock leaned back and returned to thinking-posture, "Then, nothing. We continue to live, people continue to come to me for advice, I return to being the only consulting detective in the world."

"And the point of all this is…"

"To ease it. You can't just pop up and say 'I'm alive!' It's too much of a shock."

It made sense to John, "And what about Moriarty's people? I thought you were concerned that they would come after us all again?"

"I've been assured it's been taken care of, and if problems arise, we'll figure it out. Together." He met Johns eyes.

"Boys?" Mrs. Hudson came around to look at them, "I almost forgot to ask; when this is all over, will you be moving back into Bakers Street, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"And you'll be needing two rooms?"

Sherlock and John shared a look for a second, "No, I don't think we will be."

A smile grew over her face and she turned, "I'll go back to making tea now."

"Right." Sherlock stood up, "John, will you help me attend to business in our room?"

John smiled and followed him.

They spent a half-hour 'attending business' and talking on Johns bed, before they went outside and joined Mrs. Hudson for tea. They explained everything to her, and like the tough woman she was, she just nodded and understood. She went to her room and unpacked, bringing John a few books she had taken from his apartment 'in case he got bored' and bringing Sherlock his violin.

She spent a lot of time in the kitchen, baking. John thought it might be a coping mechanism, or she just didn't have anything to do. He was grateful to have someone around to make food though, and he promised himself to make Sherlock eat something before he passed out. When she wasn't cooking, she was playing the games on Johns laptop.

John and Sherlock mostly stayed in their room, sometimes coming out to walk around and talk to her. In the room, they rotated between Sherlock talking on the phone while John read and making out on the bed. They got a little too caught up, though, and forced Sherlock to miss quite a few calls. (One of which being from Irene, which pleased John the most.)

Mrs. Hudson walked in on them approximately one time, quickly becoming embarrassed and promising to knock next time, then informing them that dinner was ready before she shut the door and left.

John leaned into the pillow and laughed, "Oh god. That was so embarrassing."

Sherlock chuckled, "She should have knocked."

"You had your hands on my arse, I don't think I would have even noticed if she knocked."

Sherlock stood up and buttoned up his shirt before his phone started ringing again. He picked it up, "Hello dear brother….. Yes…. Oh really?... Fantastic…. No, we've been here. Rather busy, in fact," he sent a wink towards John, "Yes, I understand…. Indeed…. Tell him to call me about it." He shut the phone and threw it on the bed.

"What was that about?" John inquired.

"Ah, there have been reports of people who think they've seen me." Sherlock laughed, "People these days will say anything to have it on the media."

"Media?"

"Yes, there's apparently going to be a news report tomorrow about all this."

"Is that good?"

"Better than good! Fantastic. Let's go." He went for the door and John shot up to stop him.

"Wait, Sherlock. Promise me you'll eat." He grabbed the tall mans wrists and met his eyes.

"Wha-"

"Promise. Me." John leaned into him, "You haven't eaten in two days, please, just eat something. Don't offend Mrs. Hudson, either."

Sherlock looked and saw the clear worry in Johns face, "Fine, I'll eat something."

"Thank you."

They joined Mrs. Hudson for dinner, and Sherlock did eat. After they were done, she went to bed and they took turns in the bathroom getting ready for sleep. When John came out of the bathroom, Sherlock was fast asleep. Actually asleep. John laughed to himself.

"Even the great Sherlock Holmes gets worn out."

**Day Three**

John woke up to Sherlocks phone beeping with a text, but Sherlock was so fast asleep he didn't make any moves towards it. John picked it up and checked it.

**Hello sweety, I did the double checks on Moriarty's people like you wanted. I'll see you Saturday. Hugs and kisses! –I.A**

John bit his lip and glanced at Sherlock. If he replied, there was no way Sherlock wouldn't know. Would he care? Probably not. John hit reply.

**When you get here, don't bother making any moves. I'm not interested anymore. –SH**

He set down the phone and curled back up in the blankets, watching Sherlock. He was so fast asleep, John wondered how long it had been since Sherlock really slept. Maybe he had nightmares, too. John hadn't really asked. He assumed Sherlock didn't even dream.

He leaned forward and laid his face inches from Sherlock's, listening to his breathing. It made his heart race in his chest. He wondered if that would ever change. If in forty years, he would still lay here and his heart would still race just thinking about him.

He couldn't take it; he leaned forward and kissed him.

Sherlock woke up then, he felt groggy and tired, but he pushed forward and kissed John back, sighing into him. John pulled back and sat up, pulling Sherlock with him by his collar, until Sherlock was sitting up too. But he didn't kiss him. He sat forward, his lips a breath away from his, and stayed put. Just breathing.

He closed his eyes and listened.

Sherlock was breathing at normal speed, but it was… abnormal, too. One breath would be long and shallow, hesitating, and his exhales were fast. John put his hand on Sherlocks chest, feeling. It was beating fast, too fast for him. When John opened his eyes, he studied Sherlocks. They were catlike as always, but extremely dilated.

"You like me," John smirked, "You totally do."

Sherlock laughed, "What are you doing?"

"Checking," John lifted his hands and closed his eyes, "Stop moving for a second."

Johns hands started at Sherlocks jaw, his fingers dancing towards his chin, memorized every little bit of it. Then they found his lips, pulled them open. They were soft, really soft. Unnaturally soft. He stroked his cheeks, washing his thumbs over his cheekbones, three times until he felt like he had enough of them. Sherlock closed his eyes as John inspected them with his hands, touching, feeling. Then his forehead, back down his cheeks and too his lips again, for a few more minutes. He pulled away, and set his hands in his lap, and opened his eyes. The sight took away his breath.

John had never seen Sherlock cry before. He didn't actually think it could happen. He heard him cry, on the phone with him, that fateful day a year ago. But seeing it was so different. It was tragic, one of the saddest things John had ever seen in his entire life. But something about it was… strangely beautiful. Like a bird that only ever was a burning red, changing colour into a beautiful blue.

"Sherlock…" John gasped. Sherlock found his hands and opened his eyes, the tears dripping down them. He didn't think it was possible, but they were more beautiful when he was crying.

Sherlock leaned into him, pressing his head into Johns shoulder, letting out a tiny sob. It was the crying of a man who had been holding so much inside, too much. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and resting his head against his, rocking him slightly and pulling him into him.

"It's okay," John let out a shaky laugh, "It's okay. Everything will be fine. I promise you, you'll never have to hurt again. I'll never leave you."

He just held Sherlock for an hour while he cried. It didn't feel like it would ever end, and then he finally stopped shaking, just breathing into Johns neck like a scared little child. And John rocked him and didn't say anything else. Eventually, when he was sure he had stopped, he spoke.

"Are you okay now? Your phone is ringing."

"Yes," Sherlock pulled back and rubbed his eyes, pushing back without looking at John. He picked it up and stood, walking towards the window, talking mindlessly into the phone, normally, like he hadn't just broken down. John stood up and found new clothes, leaving the room to go get dressed.

Molly arrived an hour later, and Sherlock managed to insult her and smirk like he always had. She, however, seemed unphased. Maybe just glad he was back. Lestrade insulted Sherlock back a few times before leaving, and Sherlock then showed them the secret basement. The entrance to it was hidden under the sofa, a passage to a tiny flight of stairs into an area with three bedrooms and another bathroom, as well as a locked door of what looked like a vault. John decided not to ask, just decided not to talk at all.

Sherlock avoided eye contact with him, paced the living room and talked to Molly and Mrs. Hudson, who were seated on the couch. He told them about how he had faked his death, told them about how life was solving cases, and even explained some cases to them in detail. They sat and marveled as they always had, asked him questions. He was caught up in his little world of explaining.

John leaned against the wall and watched him, for any sign that he might break down. He knew he wouldn't, and he knew they probably wouldn't talk about what happened in the bedroom, ever. Sherlock didn't want to be vulnerable, but the fact he was, for John, was enough. After a while, Sherlock sat down and listened to them. He listened to Molly talk about her and Lestrade, about work and about how hard it was to pretend she didn't know Sherlock was alive. They all just… talked. It was nice, listening to their voices. After they all got bored of talking, Mrs. Hudson went back to baking and Sherlock rotated between pacing the room playing on his violin and talking on the phone. After a while John stood up and went to his room, leaving them all alone. He shut the door and laid down in the bed, closing his eyes. He was really tired, suddenly. After a few seconds, he drifted to sleep.

This dream started out the way most of them did; he was running though a smoke. He could hear noises; people screaming and guns firing. He kept screaming, "Sherlock!" But no noise would come out, overpowered by all the other noises. And then they died down, until it was silent. He stopped running, kept trying to scream but he heard nothing. He waited, the smoke started to clear, in front of him he saw a building… And Sherlock was on top.

In his head, all the things he wanted to say were with him. _Not again, don't do this. I love you, I will always love you. If you leave me now, I will never love again. I will never breathe again._ But when he opened his mouth to say them, nothing would come out. And then Sherlock jumped.  
>That was usually how these nightmares ended, but not this one. It kept going.<p>

Suddenly, John was on the building. The skies were red, he was looking down but he couldn't see the bottom. Fear was in his heart, he turned around but Sherlock was behind him. His eyes weren't blue anymore, no, they were red. He was dressed in a pure black suit, making him look even paler. John opened his mouth but said nothing, because Sherlock was advancing. He got on the ledge with John and leaned forward, kissing his lips. And then he pushed John off the ledge.

"John!"

John's eyes flew open, he was gasping, gripping the blankets and drenched in sweat. Hands were on his chest. He looked up. Molly.

"John, are you okay?" She was searching his face, "I heard you yelling, Sherlock is downstairs I don't think he could hear-"

"Don't tell him," John panted, sitting up, "Don't say anything, Molly, don't."

"I… why?"

"He can't," John shook his head, "I can't, he can't… Just, don't, Molly."

Molly hesitated, and then her eyes went to the doorway. John followed her gaze, Sherlock was standing there, looking at Molly. John gulped.

"Molly, will you please leave me and John, please?"

"…Yeah," She stood up, looking at John, "Sorry."

She walked past Sherlock and he shut the door behind her, loudly. He looked out the window and didn't say anything, just sat on the edge of the bed.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't want you to know I was still…"

"Having nightmares."

"…Yeah."

"Of course, I know. I'm not an idiot."

John stared at him, "What?"

"You have them when you sleep, every night. Except when I hold you, then they stop. But…"

"But I'm still having them. I don't know why, I wish I did." John looked down.

Sherlock sighed, "I know why."

"You…do?"

"Yes," Sherlock took out his phone and flipped through it, finding something and showing it to John. It was the text he had sent to Irene.

"Uh…" John looked away.

"You don't trust me," Sherlock stood up, "Still."

"I didn't-"

"It took a lot, for me." Sherlock stood up and walked towards the window, "To open up to you. To tell you how I felt. To…" He waved his hand and didn't say it, but John knew what he wanted to say. To cry.

"Sherlock," John sighed.

"And you still don't trust me," Sherlock hissed. He turned to John then, "I told you I wouldn't go near Irene, and still you sent her such a… rude text. She's my friend."

"And you weren't turning her down, Sherlock. I just did it for you."

"No. You let your jealousy get the best of you. I understand the nightmares, John. Not this." He threw his phone on the bed and turned away, "Maybe I should sleep downstairs tonight."

John shook his head and stood up, "No. Don't bother." He opened the door and left. He walked towards the kitchen and found Mrs. Hudson. She smiled at him.

"Hello dear, you missed dinner. Would you like something now?"

"No," he pulled on his jacket, "I am going for a walk. I'll see you later."

"John?"

He shut the door and let out a single breath before continuing down the walk, onto the sidewalk. He didn't know where he wanted to go; just that he couldn't take it in that house anymore. That he couldn't take it… here anymore. Sherlock was right, of course. But he didn't feel like he did anything wrong. Sherlock said he wanted him, but he didn't do anything to show it to Irene. Part of John wished they had a label, something substantial to say. To tell Irene what was going on and maybe she'd back off. He didn't trust that woman as far as he could throw her.

John walked at a brisk pace, trying not to think. One street, two streets. It wasn't long until he noticed the black car following him. He walked faster, but it caught up, the back window rolling down.

"Lost, are we?" Mycroft called from the window.

"Nope, trying to lose."

"My brother?"

"My mind," John stopped moving and so did the car, "And you're following me."

"Keeping an eye on all of you, I get bored sometimes too. Get in the car?"

"Only since you asked so nicely," John sighed. He opened the door and ducked in.

The car started driving again, "You left, because?"

"I didn't feel like being yelled at." John looked out the window and into the sky. Stars.

"By Sherlock? I didn't even think he yelled, just argued and insulted."

"You haven't been around him enough then."

"Or you just bring out that side of him."

John didn't reply. They sat in silence.

"I understand he gets to be a lot to handle. No one knows more then I," Mycroft sighed, "As a child, I always wanted to study and he'd never let me. He'd harass me that I was a baby, because I never wanted to go out and explore. I know now that he just wanted someone to play with. Everything was a game to him. He'd upset our mother and think it was a game. I'd yell and he'd just smile, it was all a game. As he grew, nothing changed. He settled on being a detective, because nothing is as fun as a little danger. I never thought he'd ever be serious about anything, he'd be a child forever."

John looked at Mycroft, "And?"

"And then you came along." Mycroft met Johns eyes, "All he ever enjoyed in life, was solving crimes and being clever. He loved it; he'd never give it up for anything. He'd trade me and Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson for a good serial killer. But you… You made him feel something else, love something else. And then he started having feelings, for other people as well. And when he started to love people, he would jump off of a building for them. For you."

John frowned. He knew all of this, of course he did. But hearing Mycroft say it was so different. Mycroft, who didn't care at all what happened to his brother, and now he was telling John to keep trying.

"He thinks I don't trust him."

"Do you?"

"Yes," John gulped, "I trust him more then I have trusted anyone in my entire life."

"He's insecure, you're cautious." Mycroft took out his phone.

"Why would he be insecure?"

"If no one has ever loved you in your entire life, and then suddenly someone did, would you be able to understand? He thinks he's unlovable. Maybe," Mycroft turned towards him, "It's him who doesn't know how to trust you. How to love you."

John stared at him for a few minutes. Mycroft opened a new text message, and decided not to send it.

"It's just… a lot to handle right now." John breathed, "Where are we going?"

"My house. I have a spare room you can sleep in. Give you some time to handle it, give him some time to calm down. And in the morning you can find him and fix it."

"But the plan…"

"I don't think the plan will change over one night somewhere else."

"…Thank you, Mycroft."

They drove to Mycrofts house and John slept in a strange bed, alone, without nightmares for the first time in a year.

**Day Four**

When Sherlock woke up, he was alone. His heart ached in his chest, a feeling he didn't care to understand, maybe a side effect of emotions. He sat up and stretched, carefully, trying hard to comprehend the events of the night before. What was it, exactly? A fight? Did they break up? No, that would require a relationship. Sherlock sighed. Not putting a title on their thing seemed like such a good idea, but now everything that had to do with it didn't have titles either. Made it all very confusing.

He didn't bother getting dressed, just wore his pajama's into the kitchen. Molly was sitting at the table on her laptop, reading something intently, probably news. Mrs. Hudson just offered him a caring, and yet knowing, smile. But John wasn't there.

"Where's John?" Sherlock took the cup of coffee as she handed it to him, "Hopefully not still downstairs moping, it's unbecoming of him."

Molly looked up and Mrs. Hudson glanced at him, "Didn't he come to bed with you? I don't know; I went to sleep after he left."

"Left?" Sherlock stopped drinking, "What do you mean, he left?"

"He wasn't sleeping downstairs," Molly piped up, "I thought he was with you, Sherlock."

"Wait, left?"

"Yes, he left the house last night. Said he needed a walk."

"…And he wasn't downstairs. He never came back." Sherlock set down his coffee and pulled out his phone, calling Johns. It rang a few times and then went to voicemail.

"I'm sure he's fine, dear," Mrs. Hudson touched his arm, "Maybe he caught a ride back into town…"

"Or he was kidnapped."

"Who would kidnap him? Be real," Molly sighed, "You fought, Sherlock. I'm sure he just went out for a drink and ended up and some girls house or something..."

Mrs. Hudson met her eyes and shook her head, Molly only then realizing what she had said.

"Oh, god," Sherlock squeezed shut his eyes, "Oh god oh god oh god." He pulled out his phone and called Mycroft. After two rings, he answered.

"Mycroft," Sherlock gripped the counter, "I can't find John. Have you been watching him? Find out where he is."

"Sherlock-"

"Please, hurry. He could have been kidnapped or… Or worse."

"Sherlock, relax. I know exactly where he is."

"Where?"

"He was here. He was at my house. He just left with Lestrade, they're on their way now."

"Oh," Sherlock sighed in relief. He realized Molly and Mrs. Hudson were watching him so he straightened up and walked out of the room, "Why was he with you?"

"Luckily I was keeping an eye on the house last night. I saw him leave, stopped him before he could do something really stupid."

"Thank you," Sherlock cleared his throat, "But what do you mean, something stupid?"

"What did you mean 'or worse'?"

"Nothing."

"Don't yell at him, Sherlock. It's strange enough he loves you at all, don't frighten him away."

Mycroft hung up and Sherlock sighed. There were things he needed to do. He searched for Irene's number and dialed it, going into his room.

"Yes, my sweets?" Her voice was like water.

"I need to talk to you," He stood by the window.

"About?"

"That text yesterday. I didn't send it, John did."

"Oh honey, I know that. You never reply to my texts, why would you suddenly? His jealousy is so much fun."

"He sent it," Sherlock frowned, "But he was right."

"Really?"

"Yes. You're allowed to come, allowed to help, because I need your help. And you are my… friend. But John is important to me, more important than you. So you are allowed to come, but keep your flirting to yourself. I don't need the tensions."

"What if I can't? Stop flirting with you, I mean." She giggled over the phone, "You're so sexy, what if I can't stop myself?"

"Then don't come." Sherlock hung up as he saw Lestrades silver car pulling into the driveway. He watched John get out, smiling and looking actually fairly well rested. Sherlock sat on the bed, thinking.

"Hello dears," Mrs. Hudson greeted them at the door, "John! Where were you? Gave Sherlock quite the fright this morning when you weren't here."

"Really?" John didn't get his answer, because Molly nearly jumped into Lestrades arms and they were having a passionate, and rather disgusting, exchange of tongues, "Where is he?"

"Bedroom," Mrs. Hudson frowned at them, "I have seen far too many people kissing in this house…"

John walked past her and towards the hall. Outside of the door, he stood and took a deep breath. He knew what he wanted to say. All that was left was saying it. He opened the door, Sherlock was sitting on the bed but he stood up as soon as John came in. His eyes ran up and down Johns body, as though checking to make sure it was fine.

"…Hi," He finally said. John nodded at him and turned, shutting the door.

"I wanted to apologize," John stood tall, looking over the man he loved, "You were right. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have sent that to Irene. Because I do, I trust you so much. I don't trust… her."

"I should have told her to leave me alone. In fact I did, this morning. I don't want her to come between…."

"This," John laughed, and then became solemn, "Look, I know this is hard…"

"What?"

"This. Loving me. Having me love you. But if we don't trust each other we're never going to have any sort of relationship."

"I know that," Sherlock set his phone down and approached him, "I wanted to talk to you, too, about that."

"About what?"

"Our relationship," His eyes met Johns and his stomach dropped.

"Oh, god. Are you breaking up with me? I mean…" John shook his head, "I knew we weren't actually together or anything but…"

"What?" Sherlock reached out and grabbed him, "No. Not that."

"What then?"

Sherlock sat down, looking up at him, "This is all very scary, isn't it? Being part of something, like us."

"It's terrifying. But worth it."

"We are together, aren't we?" Sherlock looked up at him, "I don't want any labels but… we are together."

"Sort of, yeah. We kiss a lot. We fight, have trust issues, make up. I'm sure the sex would be amazing, if we had it," John laughed, "And we love each other. So… we're together. But there's no need to put a label on that."

"Do you want a label? I never asked you, what you want. If you want me to be your… boyfriend, then I will be. I won't like it, but I'll do it."

"No," John sat down and took Sherlocks hand, "Mostly because I don't think there's a label to describe us at all. None whatsoever. You're a sociopath and you piss me off because you're so clever, but I would be so lost without you. And I think… you'd be pretty lost without me, too."

"Indeed."

"See? We're Sherlock and John. We solve cases and sleep together, and no one can define that. It's fine."

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, "And what if one day, that's not enough for you?"

"That will never happen."

"What if there are things I can't do? There are things wrong with me, John. You know that. What if I can't… give you what you need?"

"Is this about the sex thing again? Sherlock, I need you. If I want sex I'll…. Wank off privately or something. Until you're ready. And if you're never ready, I'll never push it."

"Would you really be fine with that?"

"I think sex is a beautiful way to show love, but not necessary to show it."

Sherlock looked at him. He didn't look so scared now. He didn't feel so scared.

"I'm sorry I yelled yesterday."

"I'm sorry I left yesterday."

"I'm sorry I cried yesterday," Sherlock laughed, almost hysterically and it was a tad scary, "Oh god, that was so embarrassing. I don't know why I did it, I just did. I will never be able to understand emotions."

"I think you were being intimate and you got scared and it had obviously been a while since you cried, so you did."

"You say it like it's no big deal."

"It isn't."

"It is to me!" Sherlock stood up and paced, "I cried on the phone with you a year ago, but I don't count that, I was drugged. So before yesterday, the only other times I had cried in my life was as a baby and as a child when Mycroft pushed me out of a tree. And that was pain!"

"Sherlock, you're being hysterical again. Sit down." He did as he was told, "Crying is a big part of human emotions. If you're going to try to work through them, crying is a part of it. You cried when you were scared by the Hound, remember?"

"I did?"

"Nearly. Its fine, it's okay. Emotions get extreme and people cry."

"I don't."

"You're a human. Even though you don't think so, and sometimes I don't think so." John sighed.

Sherlock put his face in his hands, "It's so embarrassing."

"I cry."

"Yes, but you're an emotional wreck."

John stood up, "Yes, make fun of me. That will solve our problems."

Sherlock smiled at him and stood up, "I'm only kidding. I can joke, can't I? Is Lestrade here, shall I go greet him?"

John turned to the door and turned the lock, "No, I think your mouth will be busy doing other things in a moment."

"Will it?" Sherlock smiled as John pushed him into the bed and straddled him. He leaned forward, but as Sherlock reached up to kiss him, he pulled back.

"No, no," John smirked, "You're going to have to work harder than that."

Finally, they came outside, miraculously fully dressed and pretending they didn't make a massive mess of their room just fooling around. And the rest of them acted like they didn't know. Mrs. Hudson brewed tea and they spent the day together, making plans and Sherlock being generally offensive, especially towards Molly and Lestrades relationship. He often referred to Molly as a crypt robber and John wondered why everything was funny to him.

Later, as the day was drawing to a close, John sat on his computer at the table with Sherlock across from him. Mrs. Hudson whistled to herself and cooked food, and Molly and Lestrade were watching TV together in the other room. John had almost totally forgotten about the TV. He didn't know why Sherlock was sitting across from him, he could be doing anything else but instead he chose to be there. John scrolled through news stories with his right hand and held Sherlocks across the table with his left. It was all unnaturally intimate, but John didn't mind at all. He couldn't ever pretend to mind.

Sherlock stroked his thumb over Johns palm while resting his head on his other arm, watching the sun sink and being deep in thought. He looked so precious and content. Mrs. Hudson kept glancing at them, smiling to herself.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked, glancing at Sherlock. His friend didn't say anything, just sat there. John opened his email to find one from Harry;

**Are you okay? I watched the news and heard the rumors that he's alive, is it true?**

"I feel like I'm missing something important," Sherlock frowned, "I feel like something critical might go wrong. But I don't know what."

"You're smart, if you can't think of it, then I'm sure it will come to you. Or maybe it's just one of those nagging feelings that turn out to be nothing." John said, hitting reply to his sisters email.

**I'll call you in a few days and explain everything. Stay patient, Harry.**

He hit send and looked at Sherlock. His eyes were closed now and he had stopped stroking Johns palm. John took his hand and shook it.

"Are you falling asleep?" John raised an eyebrow at him, it wasn't even dark yet.

Before Sherlock could answer, Lestrade came into the room. Sherlock quickly let go of Johns hand and hid his under the table. The fact Sherlock wasn't keen on Lestrade knowing about them was kind of weirdly amusing. John thought it was because then Greg could make him the butt of more jokes.

"How's the food coming, Mrs. Hudson? Can I help?" Lestrade smiled.

"Yes, nearly finished. Sherlock, are you going to eat dear?"

Sherlocks eyes were closed again, John decided to answer for him.

"I think he's tired, so no. I'd better get him to bed." He stood up and nudged his lanky friend, "Come on, get up. You look like you're about to pass out."

Sherlock barely made any effort to argue, just stood up and made a sort of groan in annoyance at John. He laughed and nudged him out of the room. Luckily he could just go to bed, since Sherlock hadn't really made any effort to get out of his pajama's today. Once Sherlock was under the covers, John undressed and got ready himself. He turned off the lights and crawled into bed, curling up behind Sherlock and wrapping an arm around him.

"Why are you so tired?"

"I didn't sleep well last night." Sherlock mumbled, "Bad dreams."

"So you DO dream."

"Of course I do, don't be stupid."

"You're mean when you're tired."

"I'm mean all the time."

"So true," John smiled and leaned forward, kissing the back of his friends neck, "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"It's officially been six days, since you came back."

"Really?" Sherlock rolled onto his back, turning his head to face John, "It feels like so much longer, doesn't it?"

"A lifetime of listening to you talk," John purred.

"And that year apart seems like it lasted a million years," Sherlock sighed.

John opened his eyes and leaned forward, kissing Sherlocks lips softly.

"It basically was."

Sherlock closed his eyes and laughed sleepily, "If I loved you forever, would you be mad?"

"Why would I be mad? God you're weird when you're tired."

"Sometimes I don't talk for days," He muttered, "I play the violin when I'm thinking…"

"That's exactly what you said before we became roommates," John smiled at him through the darkness.

"Potential soul mates should know the worst about each other."

John shook his head, "Go to sleep, you're being odd."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then he quickly sat up, "John."

"What?"

"Someone's watching us."

"You're tired, go back to bed."

"No, John," Sherlock nudged him. John sat up and followed his gaze. Outside of the window, across the lawn, across the street, someone was standing. He was staring into the house.

"What the…" The man turned, and walked away. Chills crawled up Johns spine. Someone knew they were here.

"Oh god," Sherlock fell into bed, "I'm so tired I'm seeing things."

John stood up and walked towards the window, closing the blinds. He went to the side of the bed and pulled out his phone, sending a text to Mycroft.

**Just saw someone outside watching us. Please tell me it was one of your men.**

"Sherlock, go to sleep now, please."

"Fine, only if you lay with me."

"I will," John got back into bed, "I will."

But he couldn't shake the feelings they were being watched.


	7. Chapter 6: Where I End

Wow 5000 words. Not even half of last chapter.

And not even half of what I wanted this Chapter to contain!

I'll do the rest of what I planned soon. But I'm really tired and you guys have been patient, so here is the next bit.

Continue reviewing! Also, I would LOVE fanart for this story c: if you draw some, send it to me on my tumblr.

.com

Enjoy. -ACR

* * *

><p><strong>Day Five<strong>

John didn't think he could ever get used to waking up next to Sherlock. The beauty of that man while he slept was breathtaking. John felt like he was unworthy. His curly hair was a mess on the pillow, the blankets pulled up around his mouth. He looked amazing.

But before John could drown in it, the image of what had happened the night before sunk into his stomach. He sat up on his elbows and looked at the window, closed now. Had someone been watching them? Was it a trick, a coincidence? Or did someone really know they were there?

He reached for his phone and looked at it. Two missed calls from Mycroft, no texts. He quickly picked it up and called him back.

"Hello?" He answered almost immediately.

"Hey," John stood up, pulled his robe around him and glanced at Sherlock, being careful not to wake him.

"What was that text last night? Someone was watching you?"

"Yeah. Sherlock saw him and I looked out the window and there he was. Just standing there, looking right at us. It was so creepy."

"And Sherlock saw?" He could hear Mycroft frowning.

"Yeah but he was delirious, I don't know if he'll remember when he wakes up."

"Okay. I'm sure it was nothing. But I'll keep my eyes open, if it will make you feel better."

"Okay. Thanks." John whispered. Mycroft grunted and hung up.

John snuck out of the room and tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen. It was six in the morning, still too early. At least too early for Molly or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade to be awake. Today… Irene was coming. Sherlock said he had told her off, but hadn't really mentioned her after that. Maybe she wouldn't come, one could only hope. He started to make coffee.

Sherlock startled awake, sitting up quickly. A cold sweat broke over him, something feeling wrong. A nightmare, again. He hadn't had them since he was a child, and now they were consistent. The only thing was, he couldn't remember them. He didn't know at all.

He glanced at the clock. 7:13. He stood up and stretched his arms out, looking around. John was up already. He opened the door and wandered into the kitchen. The sight there shocked him.

John was at the table, on his computer, sipping a cup of coffee. Across was him was Irene, tapping away at her cellphone and glancing at John earnestly. John looked like he was trying his best to ignore her.

"Uh," Sherlock looked around, wondering if he was missing something, "Hello."

Irene Adler looked up, a smile stretching across her face. "Sherlock, dear! So happy you could join us. Have some coffee, won't you? John made it himself with love."

John glared at her and continued reading whatever was on his screen. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned to get coffee. Irene never stopped watching him.

"So… What are you doing here?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I thought about your offer," She stood up, "But I decided to come anyway. Don't worry, I won't flirt, since you asked so not nicely."

As she walked past, Sherlock turned to John and pointed at her, trying to communicate "I told you" with his eyes. John just smirked.

"Would you like me to show you to your room?" Sherlock walked past her and towards the odd stairs in the middle of the room, "It's across from Molly and Lestrades, so you might hear weird noises. I advise you to ignore them."

She turned on him, "You could have just told me."

"What?" He looked past her.

"That you're in love with him, and that's why I'm not allowed to flirt with you." She moved into his line of sight so he couldn't avoid her, "If you had told me, I would have listened."

"I'm not-" He looked around, making sure no one was around to hear, "How did you get that? I haven't even seen you for two minutes."

"I'm not an idiot," Her fingers traced along his face, "I outsmarted you, remember?"

"Almost outsmarted me," He pushed her hand away.

"You saw him and your face lit up," She turned around and headed down the stairs, "You should have just told me."

She vanished and Sherlock turned around, returning to the kitchen and sipping at his coffee.

"So you just sat there and didn't talk to her?" Sherlock sat across from John.

"She just walked in. It was very rude." He didn't look up at him.

"I'm sure that's why," Sherlock crossed his arms on the table and leaned on them, smiling at John.

"Well I don't want to talk to her, so why should I?" I pretended to not notice the eyes on him.

"Mmhmm."

"You told her not to come," John looked up at him finally, "Why?"

"I didn't want her making you crazy if she couldn't resist me." Sherlock leaned forward and rested his chin on the top of Johns laptop.

John stared at him, "Yes, because you're so irresistible."

"I don't think you're in the position to be using sarcasm."

"You're absolutely right," He leaned forward and rested a kiss on Sherlocks lips, "Thank you."

"Of course," he leaned back down just in time as Molly walked in.

"Good morning boys," She offered them the sweet smile. She had the aura of a very happy and pleased woman. Sherlock must have noticed because he was making a very sour face.

"I made coffee," John said to her, kicking Sherlock under the table and silently begging him not to say what they were both thinking. Of course, Sherlock can't really be tamed.

"Gross, did you _just _have sex?" He shook his head, looking genuinely disgusted.

"How did you…" She frowned at him, continuing to pour her coffee. She genuinely didn't seem that concerned about him knowing though.

"You could at least wait a bit," Sherlock mumbled unhappily.

She turned around and faced him, "Don't be angry just because, at least I'm getting sex."

John and Sherlock both looked at her, momentarily baffled.

"Yeah," She stuck her tongue out at them and began to leave the room, "I can _deduce_ too."

John and Sherlock exchanged a look before bursting into laughter. They laughed for a while, John leaning into his laptop for support and Sherlock gripping the table. After a few minutes they calmed down until it was a deep chuckle in the back of Sherlocks throat.

"I feel bad for Irene, she gets to listen to them doing it all night," John smiled.

"Knowing her she'll like it," Sherlock pulled out his phone, "Or worse, join in."

"Disturbing mental image, Sherlock,"

He laughed and stood up, "I have to talk to Lestrade. I'll be right back."

That day was fairly normal, little did John know it was the last few moments of normalcy he would get. He sat on his computer and looked at news and forums. The uprising of Sherlock Holmes was gaining speed now; people were on the edge of their seats waiting to find out if it was really true. Johns blog had more hits now than it ever had, and the vanishing of Lestrade had made quite the impact. Questions were arising now, why had everyone who had know Sherlock suddenly up and disappeared in this critical time? It was becoming interesting, a mystery in itself. Sherlock talked to Lestrade, nailing down the last points of the plan. It would be coming soon now, a press conference where his existence would be revealed for the world. After that, they could maybe continue living normally in Bakers Street. Mrs. Hudson complained, nearly insisted that John and Sherlock move out for their own safety. But it wasn't about being safe; it was about the fact Bakers Street had become their home.

Irene assured them that her absence would only reinforce what her underground system of "rats" already knew; that Sherlock Holmes was indeed alive. John personally saw no need for her to be there, and found himself constantly sitting on the edge of a room while they all talked, just watching her. But she behaved herself, almost like something had changed her mind about Sherlock. She didn't even look at him, really. And their conversations were strictly professional.

Mrs. Hudson spent a lot of time ignoring them and complaining about how many people there were under one roof and how silly it was. John actually enjoyed it; nothing was ever boring. He sat for an hour on the couch and listened to Lestrade and Sherlock argue about whether or not he could let Sherlock work for him again. John knew he would, though. There was a striking amount of baffling cases over the past year; cases Lestrade couldn't solve without Sherlock. So even though they argued, he heard it as two friends giving each other a hard time.

He spent a portion of the day with Molly. Though curious, John didn't really want to understand much about the goings on of the 'plan,' and neither did Molly. She sat with John in his room and talked mindlessly, almost to herself. But he listened. She talked about her mom, how she was coming to London soon and wanted to meet Greg, how nervous she was about it. She didn't really ask for Johns opinion and he didn't give it, just nodded and smiled and listened. Her problems seemed trivial, a nice break from all this confusion and complexity.

After an hour or two of talking in his room, she stopped and looked at him, "Are you and Sherlock like… you know."

"Are we what?" Of course he knew, but it was different to hear her say it.

"Dating," She looked at him.

"No," He sighed truthfully, sitting up straighter. He had been picking absentmindedly at Sherlocks violin.

"Well, maybe dating isn't the right word?"

He glanced up, "What do you mean?"

"I never thought of him as having much of a fondness for labels," She laughed, "He barely says the word 'friend.' So, maybe you aren't dating? But you are…."

"Together," John looked at her, "You're asking me if we are romantically involved."

"I am asking."

She was looking hard at him, unblinking. It was a little unnerving. Finally, he let out a sigh, "I guess we are. But there isn't much to it, don't take it and talk about it and-"

"And don't tell Greg. I know." She smiled.

"How do you know?"

"Sherlock wouldn't want him to know," She looked at her hands and played with some string on her shirt, "He'd feel weak. But Greg isn't like that; he won't make fun of you guys. Just because Sherlock makes fun of us."

"You know Sherlock doesn't mean it. He's secretly ecstatic about it."

"Really?"

"Really," John stood up, "I mean, he wants you both to be happy. And you are."

"You're right," She stood up too, "Should we go make some tea?"

"I think yes."

That night they all sat together and shared a meal that Mrs. Hudson made for them. Since there weren't enough chairs at the table, they sat in the living room. Irene wanted to watch television but no one could agree on anything so they left it off. Mrs. Hudson was gently situated on the couch with John next to her. Sherlock had perched himself on the floor, leaning his slender back on Johns leg. Irene sat in the only remaining chair, eating delicately, while Lestrade and Molly sat on the floor, next to each other. They sat in silence, the only relative silence that had fallen over the house in a while. No one talking or planning or arguing, just sitting in comfortable quiet that seemed peaceful. But something about it didn't feel right, something still itched in the back of Johns brain.

Sherlock barely allowed himself to touch John with everyone around. It was actually becoming a fun game; how to sneak this relationship past them while also being terribly obvious. Lestrade was glancing at him now, sitting at Johns feet like a dog. Sherlock, of course, wasn't eating. Just sitting, watching.

After a few peaceful moments, Molly managed to spill water all over her. She looked on the verge of tears and Lestrade just laughed at her, and then helped her up and to the kitchen. After they vanished, Irene stood up very quietly and vanished into the basement stairs. John set aside his plate and sighed. Nothing could stay normal around these people.

A few more minutes passed and Mrs. Hudson gracefully got to her feet, gathering plates and offering sweet smiles to the two. Then she disappeared into the kitchen. They heard her begin to make a fuss about Molly making a mess.

"You could eat, you know." John settled his hands at his sides.

"I ate yesterday." Sherlock adjusted himself so he was between Johns knees, leaning back comfortably.

"Some people eat every day. Several times."

"People are boring. And predictable."

John rolled his eyes, and then felt a tiny warmth as Sherlock leaned his temple on his knee, "I don't like eating. I don't like food."

"You're a robot," John moved his hand and began to twirl a finger through Sherlocks hair.

"Mmmhmm…"

"Are you tired?"

"Are you?"

"A little bit," John shrugged. He hadn't slept much, and when he did it was restless, at least after last night's weird encounter with the stranger looking in on them. He wouldn't say no to a little sleep right now.

Sherlock nodded and got to his feet. He was wary of the nightmares that had so recently begun to creep on him while he slept, and more wary of the fact it was making him so easily exhausted. And that John was starting to notice.

They said short goodnights to their friends making a scene in the kitchen and John went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Sherlock walked into the room and picked up his violin, quickly beginning to play a lullaby. It was something he had written while he had spent this past year away.

After a few minutes, John returned. His eyes caught Sherlock and he stood in the doorway, listening to the tune. Sherlock softly played the notes, and they reverberated Johns skin, making their way in. He wondered why they gave him chills as it finished slowly.

"That was beautiful." John said, and Sherlock smiled like he often did when John complimented him.

"I wrote it," Sherlock set the violin down and walked towards the door, passing his companion, "It's called John."

John sat, a little bit shocked. The door clicked shut, and he just smiled and got into bed, closing his eyes and letting the last notes flow through him. After a few minutes, Sherlock was there and darkness was surrounding them.

"Sometimes I don't know," John muttered without opening his eyes, "Where you end and where I begin."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

John turned and looked at him, flawless face in the darkness. "Can I tell you something? A secret. Don't get mad."

"Yes," Sherlock was looking at the ceiling.

"I almost killed myself."

Silence crawled out after the words were spoken. John needed to say them, though. Maybe Sherlock would yell, John wanted him to. But he needed to tell him.

"So did I." His voice was a whisper, a child.

John found his hand and just held it.

**Day Six**

Mycroft was there Sunday morning before anyone else was even awake. He carried his bags inside and downstairs, fixating himself into the last remaining room. He walked past the doors, and back upstairs. He crept down the hall and opened the door to the room, quietly.

John's face was soft and sleeping, Sherlock was curled up close to him, his face buried in his chest. Under the sheets, white like clouds, they looked really peaceful.

Mycroft smiled despite himself.

The sixth day of being cooped up in the house was making John stir-crazy. He woke up feeling irritated and grumpy, and it got worse as the day progressed. Whatever craziness that had been present for the past week seemed like child's play compared to today. Sherlock was on a new edge with Mycroft there and they had run out of cigarettes a day ago, which made everything so much worse. Molly and Lestrade had obviously had a fight and they both were having such a hard time avoiding each other that he thought Molly was going to rip out her hair. Irene was the one on Johns nerves the most though. She was weirdly and unnaturally quiet, but she watched Sherlock like a hawk. It was all making him want to kill everyone.

He marched into the living room a little past noon after a final and unsuccessful hunt for any remaining cigarettes, and found Sherlock standing on the couch with his arms cross and Mycroft standing on the other side of the room looking irritated.

"Get your feet off the couch, it's expensive." Mycroft frowned.

"Is it?" Sherlock jumped on it, "Is that why it's so springy?"

"Sherlock, you are being a child."

"I've been hearing that a lot lately," He kept jumping, "LET ME LEAVE FOR CIGARETTES!"

"No," Mycroft was shaking his head now, "You said none of us can leave, you can't either."

"John got to leave a few days ago," Sherlock laughed a little hysterically, "So do the rules matter?"

"John's not supposed to be dead." Mycroft was raising his voice now.

Sherlock kept jumping on the couch. Molly walked up the stairs and eyed him.

"Oh, fucking hell." She grumbled.

"You should try it! It's fun!" Sherlock laughed and spotted him, "John! John, come jump with me."

John frowned and crossed the room quickly, stopping at the edge of the sofa.

"Sherlock,"

"Jump," He grinned, "With me."

"Sherlock, get off the bloody couch."

He stopped jumping.

"See? John thinks you're being stupid too," Mycroft smirked.

"I'm not getting off the couch until someone gets me a fucking cigarette!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, offering a stupid smile and started bouncing again.

"Would you stop yelling?" Lestrade called from downstairs.

"NO!"

"SHERLOCK," Mycroft was yelling now.

"NO, NO, NO, NO, NO." Sherlock bounced. John considered punching them both.

"STOP!" Irene suddenly shouted from her silent spot on the chair. They all stopped what there were doing and stared at her. She was looking around critically.

"What?" Mycroft asked.

"Did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything but Sherlock yelling," John said, throwing a glare at his friend.

"There was just a knock," She stood up, "On the door."

Eery silence grew over them, John and Mycroft sharing a weird look. Sherlock hopped off the couch and walked towards the door. Without thinking, he threw it open. But no one was there.

But, lying on the porch was a letter.

Sherlock stepped out and looked up and down the street. It was nearly deserted, besides an elderly couple sitting on their porch and a man walking to his car. A part of him wanted to start running, because the person who put this here couldn't be very far. But he knew if he was seen now, it was all over. He leaned down and picked it up.

It was white, a standard envelope. Even licked closed. He turned it over and stared at the words there, carefully written in black felt pen;

_**Sherlock**_

He lost his breath, just staring down at it. John came up behind him and looked at it over his shoulder.

"Someone knows we're here." John breathed, looking at Sherlock from the corners of his eyes.

"You're right." He stepped back and shut the door, locking it. He turned around and walked to the couch, being watched closely by Mycroft and Irene.

"What is that? Sherlock?" Mycroft frowned as his brother sat on the couch, studying the letter.

"It's a letter, Mycroft, don't be dense." Sherlock muttered without thinking, turning the letter over again and again.

"Mycroft," John gave the tall man a meaningful look and sat next to Sherlock, "Maybe we should get everyone in here?"

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, and then nodded, going down the stairs to fetch Lestrade.

"I'll get Molly and Mrs. Hudson," Irene stood up and crossed the room, vanishing into the kitchen.

"It's okay," John leaning into Sherlock and rested his chin on his shoulder, "So someone knows we're here. I'm sure it's fine."

"Please be quiet, I'm thinking."

John pulled away and looked at the letter. Sherlocks hands were shaking.

Mycroft and Lestrade returned from downstairs, Irene and Molly and Mrs. Hudson came in from the hall. They all gathered around, solemnly, and looked at the piece of paper. A million questions were racing through their heads.

"Who do you think sent it?" Molly looked at them, searching their faces.

"Maybe if Sherlock would open it," Lestrade glanced nervously between them.

"Sherlock," John nudged him, "Do you want me to?"

"No." He held it up, "Mycroft, you do it."

Mycroft stood for a moment, almost making sure his brother wasn't joking. And then he took it, looking over the words on the front. As he tore it open, Sherlock found Johns hand and gripped it, not really caring who saw.

Inside was a tiny index card. Mycroft glanced over it, but his face didn't change.

"What does it say?" John squeezed Sherlocks hand.

He just handed it to him.

_**There's a park two blocks from here.**_

_**Meet me there tomorrow, 9 a.m.**_

_**-S.M.**_

"S.M.?" John looked around, "Who's that?"

"I don't know…" Sherlock took it from John and studied it.

"S.M.?" Irene perked up, "Is that what is says?"

"That's how it's signed," Mycroft looked at her, "Why?"

"Oh," her hand flew to her mouth, "Oh, god."

"What?" Sherlock stood up, "Who sent this?"

"I didn't…" She sighed, walked a few feet and sat down on the chair, "I didn't anticipate this."

"He worked for Moriarty, didn't he?" Sherlock frowned at her, "I thought you took care of all his men."

"No. He doesn't… work for Moriarty."

"Who is he?" John asked, watching Sherlock carefully.

"His name is Sebastian Moran. He's deranged. I've worked with him before."

"And why does he want to see me?" Sherlock asked harshly.

"He didn't work for Moriarty, but… they knew each other. Moran used to be Moriarty's puppy, basically. It was a complex relationship."

"And you didn't think to tell us this?" Lestrade piped up.

"They hadn't talked in a long time. I didn't think of him until now."

"Flaws in your judgment, typical." Sherlock said, sitting back down and bringing his hands together.

Irene looked wounded.

"What could he want with Sherlock? What do you know about him?" John interjected.

"…I don't know. He's dangerous, maybe only second to Moriarty. He's crazy."

"Like Moriarty."

"No," She met his eyes, "No, he's not like him. He's… different. It's never a game to him. A feeling of passion. He's a murderer, a traitor, a sniper, a dealer. If it's dangerous, he'll do it just because he can."

"And I'm dangerous. I killed his only competitor," Sherlock closed his eyes.

John was looking around between them, everyone had grown silent and distant. He looked at Sherlock, trying hard to comprehend what this mean. When realization hit him, it was like a train.

"What if he wants to kill you?" he asked, speaking what everyone was thinking.

"I don't think so," Sherlock sighed, "Too easy."

"He could." Irene looked at them, "If you killed his only competition, that could mean you're all that stands between him and being number one. I've met him before; I can see him doing it."

John didn't really want to hear anymore. He looked at Sherlock, "Don't go."

"I have to. He knows where I am. He could tell people, the plan could be in danger." Sherlock looked at his friend.

"Then we'll leave."

"John-"

"You can't do this."

"He won't kill me," Sherlock said with finality, "I'll go, see what he has to say. Then I'll be back and everything will be fine."

John stood up and left the room. He didn't know why. Sherlock was probably right, and Irene was a bitch who was trying to rile him up. But he walked into their room and slammed the door shut.

He sighed and stared out the window. He hated this room, he hated it so much. He glanced around; perfect blankets and pillows and the bed that Sherlock had never used. He locked the door and went to his bag, digging through until he found his army knife.

Sherlock had made his choice, whether or not John liked it. Everyone sort of cleared out, vanished to separate rooms. He went to the kitchen and looked out the window, stared into the sky for a long time. Hours, maybe. He knew the sun was low in the sky when Lestrade finally came in and sat across from him.

"You okay?" He held a box out to him; cigarette's. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and took two. One for John.

"I'm fine."

"It's a little alarming. This Moran thing."

"I suppose," He placed the cigarette between his lips and Lestrade lit it. He inhaled deeply and held it, letting it out, "I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't. Quit long time ago, but I have an extra pack for emergencies, thought I'd bring it."

"Good."

"It's kind of complicated, ain't it? This whole thing," Lestrade lit his own cigarette.

"Very, but worth it, I'd presume."

"And you're okay?"

"Why do you keep asking me that? I'm fine."

"Is John?"

Sherlock looked at him, "I don't know."

"Maybe you should," The man ran his fingers through his grey hair and exhaled.

"His emotions aren't really my responsibility."

"No," Lestrade stood up, "I guess they aren't." He left.

Sherlock tapped his fingers for a few moments and finished his smoke before leaving the bud in the tiny pile of ash that had accumulated on the table. He stood up and went to the hall. As assumed, the door was locked. And, of course, Mycroft had left the key on the top of the door hinge. He opened the door and tried not to be shocked by what he saw.

Every pillow in the room had been ripped to shreds, slashes in the feather mattress they hadn't used, even a shredded blanket. And the room was coated with feathers, and John was lying on the bed with his laptop laying near him, headphones plugged into his ears. He looked like he was asleep.

Sherlock closed the door as quietly as he could, but John heard him still. His eyes were open, on his friend. He looked oddly innocent for a man who had massacred the room. Sherlock leaned against the door, locking it again and just looking long and hard at him.

John looked for a moment before closing his eyes again. Sherlock walked forward and leaned across the bed, picking up the laptop, slamming it shut, and taking the headphones away. He crossed the room and half-tossed them onto the remains of the other mattress.

"What-" John nearly complained but Sherlock was suddenly at his side again, his hand on Johns mouth.

"Stop talking," Sherlock straddled him and held him down, pinning one wrist with one hand and keeping his hand on Johns mouth, "Listen to me. I'm going to do what I have to in order to protect you, and us. And you are going to stop… This. This dramatic, teenager acting out when he doesn't get what he wants thing."

John stared at him looked annoyed.

"And another thing," He shook his head, "It isn't going to be like this forever. Being around everyone who makes us crazy, it's going to get easier. But it might be more dangerous; there will always be people who try to kill us. That's just how it is. And you need to get a hold of yourself, and stop running out every time there's a problem. We will talk to each other, or scream at each other, but we will fix everything and you aren't allowed to keep running away. Alright?"

John didn't react.

"Aright?" Sherlock pressed down harder.

John nodded and Sherlock pulled away his hand, resting it on the other side of his face. John breathed and glared at him.

"Was pinning me down necessary?" He mumbled.

"Yes, because," Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips on his, "I've been wanting to do this."

He pressed his lips down and adjusted his body so their hips were aligned. His hands trailed along his stomach and under his shirt, sending shivers up Johns body.

"Sherlock, what are you doing," John moaned as Sherlock bit his neck.

"Ravaging you," He breathed.

John let out a shaky laugh, "I can see that."

Sherlock kept moving along him, tracing Johns scars with his tongue, flesh on flesh. When he started undoing Johns pants, Johns hands shot down and grabbed his wrists, pulling him away.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock glared up at him.

"Sherlock, what are _you_ doing?" He sat up and looked at him.

"Didn't I just answer this question?" Sherlock sat up and looked away, "I was kind of hoping we could have sex now."

"Really? Now?" John frowned, "Before it's even dark, with people around, in a pile of feathers?"

"You ripped up the mattress." Sherlock pouted.

John smiled and stretched out his hand, touching the beautiful face, "We aren't doing this right now."

"Why not?"

"Because you're only doing it in case you die tomorrow."

Sherlock looked up at him, his face crumpling, "What if I do?"

"You won't. And if you do, then you'll die a virgin and that's okay. But you won't die, and I don't want our first time to be stupid because we rushed anything."

"But I do. Want to."

"Really?" John smiled bigger.

"Yes," Sherlock sat back and pulled his knees to his chest, "I love you."

"Then we will," John leaned in and kissed Sherlock, deeply, with meaning, desperate, but soft, "Tomorrow, if you still want to, we will."

"Okay,"

Someone tried to open the door outside, and then knocked, "Sherlock? John? Are you in there?"

It was Mycroft. Sherlock sighed, "Yes."

"There's tea, if you want some."

"Do we want some?" Sherlock smiled at his blonde friend.

John smirked, "Aren't we busy?"

"Yes," Sherlock leaned back and pulled the cigarette from his pocket, "And you're a little on edge."

The initial shock was gone, but feelings of anticipation remained. John and Sherlock joined their friends, they all talked normally, like tomorrow might not change anything at all. John hoped and silently prayed it wouldn't. They all still argued, John wondered how Sherlock and Mycroft ever lived together without killing each other.

That night John and Sherlock fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed, not really minding the distance. But when John couldn't take it anymore, he moved too close and Sherlock wrapped himself within him, not caring anymore.


	8. Chapter 7: How To Be Brave

Okay guys, this is it. The last chapter. (Well, I'll write an epilogue of course.)

I'm so grateful to you guys for sticking with me and reading my crappy story.

If you want any more of my stuff, my tumblr is ACRwritings c:

I hope you enjoy this last chapter. I enjoyed writing this whole story. Mostly virgin!Sherlock and unrequited!John and yes.

Uh, there is a quick** Warning. This chapter does contain a sex scene.**

Its nothing too smutty. But it is sex. So.

Enjoy!

-ACR

* * *

><p><strong>Day Seven<strong>

There was an island, two islands, so many small islands that they stretched off into the distance until John couldn't see them anymore. All linked together by wooden bridges. Strung along the trees were hundreds of white lanterns, so many. Johns feet were bare, as they walked along the wood and the grass, crossing island to island and looking up at the dark sky.

At some point, he stopped, which made the world shudder. His sister was sitting there, on a little bench. She was wearing a plain white dress, which didn't seem like something she would do. He watched her.

"Harry, what are you doing?" He said. He was surprised of how his voice sounded.

"Waiting for you, of course."

"Why?"

"John, I grew up with you." She smiled at him, "But you are a man now. Keep walking."

So he did. Along his way he began to catch glimpses of faces, people he knew and people he used to know. People who were acquaintances, people he didn't like at all, his family and his friends. And they started to follow him, along the bridges. He wondered where he was going, in the back of his mind, he knew.

On the last island, he found Sherlock.

He was wearing a white suit, something John had never seen before but he liked. He approached him and didn't even have to think; he kissed him there, in front of everyone he knew or used to know. He would kiss Sherlock in front of the world for everyone to see; because this was him now. A part of someone else, someone he could love until his death. That was who he always wanted to be.

"What are we doing here?" He asked, pulling away.

"Getting married, remember?" In this world, Sherlocks voice was a deep echo.

"Here? In front of everyone?"

"I wouldn't do it anywhere else."

John's eyes flew open, and he sat up, gripping his chest. His heart was racing, his face was red. One of those dreams that felt so real, when you wake up it's still right there. He let out a few breaths and looked around. Sherlock was sitting up, looking weirdly at him.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock glanced around, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," John let out a breath of relief, "I'm okay. Just a dream."

"A nightmare?"

"No," John smiled, "Just a dream."

"Oh," Sherlock laid back down, "A good dream?"

"More or less," John leaned back with him.

"Can I ask what it was about?"

"God no. So embarrassing." John shook his head.

"Oh," Sherlock laughed, and then a look of understanding spread across his features, "Ohh..."

"Not like that," John rolled his eyes.

"Then what?"

"I just said I can't tell you."

"Please?"

"No," John sat up and looked at the clock. Eight, "Don't you need to go soon?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and frowned, "I guess."

"You don't have to go, you know." John was hopeful for it.

"And miss meeting Sebastian Moran? I wouldn't dream of it." Sherlock muttered. John couldn't tell if it was sarcasm.

"I'm just saying," John sat down, "You don't always have to be clever. You don't always have to know. It might be your downfall."

"Not today."

"Okay," He stood up and left the room, "Want any breakfast?"

"No."

"Of course not." John left the room.

Sherlock turned over and sighed deeply. Another night of nightmares, not enough sleep. He just wanted to sleep, now. But it wasn't the time. He stood up and got dressed in the best suit he had packed, and left the room.

The kitchen was full of people bustling around and cooking and talking so Sherlock went to the sofa and sat down next to Mycroft.

"Ready for today?" His brother sipped his tea and asked.

"No," Sherlock leaned forward and took the newspaper away from him.

"I can come, keep an eye on you."

"No, I have to do this alone." He opened it, but didn't really read. Just thought.

Mycroft changed the subject, "Tomorrow you'll go home. Are you thrilled?"

"Thrilled to sleep in a real bed, perhaps."

"And then Wednesday the world finds out you are alive…"

"Please stop talking, you're distracting me."

Mycroft chuckled. John came in and handed a cup of coffee to Sherlock, who accepting it hungrily. Then he sat down and looked over them.

"Tonight's our last night here, then?" John offered a smile which they both ignored.

"Indeed, we were just talking about that." Mycroft said.

"Just excited to sleep in my own bed."

"_My _bed," Sherlock looked at him.

John smiled. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

They sat for a few minutes and Sherlock finished his coffee, standing up.

"We should go. Mycroft, you'll drive me there?"

"Yes," Mycroft stood, "Let's go."

John followed them out the door and into the yard. He wondered if Sherlock was going to say goodbye or just go. Maybe it would be easier to just go. But what if John never saw him again? It ate at his stomach.

In the yard, though, Sherlock stopped and held out his hand to stop John. He waited until Mycroft was in the car and turned to him.

"In case I don't come back-"

"You will." John stared up at him through his lashes, "You will."

Sherlock searched his face, "You're right."

"It was a wedding." John looked away.

"What?"

"My dream. We got married. How stupid is that?"

Sherlock laughed and looked down at him, "It's not stupid."

And then he kissed him, just like that. With Mycroft looking, maybe the others were inside looking too, but Sherlock kissed him. John felt his face getting hot, he kind of wanted to cry. But he didn't.

Sherlock pulled away, "Tonight?"

Johns stomach jumped. Right; the promise. "Tonight."

Sherlock gave him one last smile and turned away, going to the door and getting in. And then the black car drove away, just like that.

John sighed. His stomach was knotting and his eyes were burning. He turned and walked inside, without looking at anyone, and went back to bed. If he could sleep through this, he'd be okay.

Sherlock didn't say anything on the ride, despite Mycroft critical stares through the mirror. Finally his brother spoke.

"How are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Being… Intimate. I didn't think you could."

"Me neither."

"But you are."

Sherlock stared out of the window, "Things changed."

"Do you want to explain that to me more?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Not really any of your business."

"You're my brother. I care."

"Since when?" Sherlock laughed harshly, then stopped, "No, sorry. I shouldn't say that. It's just different, isn't it?"

"You're different."

"I love him," Sherlock smiled, "If I'm a fool for that, then so be it."

"You aren't a fool. You simple have... A weakness."

They didn't say anything after that. They pulled up to the spot, the park. There were a few kids playing, but it was mostly empty. Maybe because the grey skies threatened to rain.

"This is it," Sherlock said, opening the door.

"Call me when you're done," Mycroft tapped the wheel, "Good luck."

Sherlock shut the door and walked into the park. He considered sitting down, but he felt too nervous. So he stood on the edge of the park and looked over the children. As a child, he hated other kids. And they hated him. To this day he didn't like children, they were sticky and screaming. He didn't even think babies were cute. A waste of time and money.

It was a while before he became aware of the man standing next to him.

"Good morning," He let out deeply, not turning to look.

"Good day, Mr. Holmes." His accent was British, but something else too, underneath it.

He turned to look at him.

Recently shaven and his blonde hair was trimmed, but within the last few days.

Very expensive suit, but very old and outdated. Purposely like that, though, something he liked. He also had a pocket watch, which was engraved with the surname "Moran", though it obviously was a family heirloom.

His eyes were a shocking green, but his skin was pale.

He wore one ring, a silver band with a lot of interlocking chains. It was too big for him, not his. In fact, Sherlock had seen it before.

He had a tattoo, just one. _Potentia_ in cursive writing across his wrist.

His hands were rough, course, the only part of his body that looked like they had done work.

"Tell me what you see," Sebastian pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, not offering one to Sherlock.

"You're here alone, which is interesting for someone of your power," Sherlock muttered, "Which means a few things. One, no one knows you're meeting me here. However, you could still have bodyguards with you but you chose not to. Which means you either trust me completely or trust your ability to take me down if I chose to try and kill you. I'd go with the latter. Judging on your hands, you're sufficient at hand-to-hand combat, but even more handy with a gun. In fact I'm guessing you have one on you right now."

"Lovely," He let out a harsh laugh, "But I was hoping you'd go deeper. How do you know I have power?"

"You're wearing a suit that's older then you are. Between your shoes and that, you're obviously extremely wealthy. Probably someone who is often in the eyes of the media, since you've grown your own style of clothing you're comfortable with. However, you're very young. Twenty-seven, if I am correct. So you yourself aren't powerful, but you are a descendant of power; as the engraving on your pocket watch tells me. Your father, is it? I've heard the name Moran before so that's a given anyway; your father is the ambassador from Russia. You yourself aren't Russian, I see more German in you. In fact I'd go so far as to say you aren't you fathers birth-son at all. Your mother could have had an affair, but I doubt your father would give much money to a bastard son. So, adopted? More likely. I'm guessing your father can't have any children."

"So far, so correct, except I've just turned twenty-eight." Sebastian tapped the ashes from his cigarette, "However, most of that someone could have found on the internet. Tell me something the press don't know."

"Gladly. You currently have a girlfriend, correct? I'm guessing she's British, because the relationship is solely built on looking good in public. You don't like her at all. You haven't had a lover in a very long time. You're more into material things, aren't you? Not the weakness of love. Your tattoo, it's Latin for 'power', something you take pride in. I can tell you have killed a lot of people, I can see it in your eyes. You have a lot of men working under you. What are you, a drug dealer? Part of the mafia? You run on the thrill of danger."

"Nothing fun about doing drugs at all, or selling them. I don't need the money," He squashed the butt into the ground, "Killing people, that's a rush. And gambling. I'm not a cheat but I don't often lose."

Sherlock searched him, "And you aren't here to kill me."

"As you said, I have a gun, so how can you be so sure?" Sebastian's eyes lit up.

"For a precaution, maybe. You knew where I was, which can only mean you've been watching my friends, more closely than anyone else. I'd say you've been watching them for a while, in fact. If you wanted me dead, I have a feeling I'd be dead already."

"Very good!" Moran laughed, "So, then the big question is…"

"Why you asked me to come." Sherlock locked his eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," He smiled and walked around until he was in front of him, "You're just as clever as they told me. But after all, you outsmarted Jim Moriarty; so how could I expect anything less?"

"I didn't outsmart him," Sherlock frowned, "In the end; he got bored of me and shot himself in the head. You and I both know if he found it fun, we'd both still be trying to outsmart each other to this day."

"I was never one for Jims games. They required a whole lot of thinking, not nearly enough doing. He always was crazy; I should have known he would be the one to kill himself for a game." Moran looked distant for a moment.

"And what was your relationship with Moriarty, exactly? I'm a bit hazy on the details."

"Rivals. From a very young age, in fact. How many times did I hold a gun to his head while he laughed at me and threatened to have my family killed? Too many times… All in good fun, of course. He needed someone to kill people for him; I was more than happy to pull the trigger. Of course, I found better work and we… Well, we moved on. Him to death and me to a happy and danger-filled life."

"So, why am I here then?" Sherlock moved and sat down on the bench, Moran taking the seat next to him.

"I wanted to thank you. For killing the one person who stood between me and the high score."

"If I killed Moriarty, doesn't that put me on top?"

"Oh, you just like to solve crimes and play with that little pet of yours; Watson, is it? No offense, but to me, you aren't even in the game."

Sherlock grew slightly rigid at the mention of John, "What is it you want, _Sebastian_?" His name was venom.

"To deliver a fair warning. My new level in this occupation means I'll be on top of the criminal world right as you're coming back into it. I doubt our paths with cross, but if they do I just wanted to say; as long as you keep your fingers out of my pie, I'll keep mine out of yours."

"A threat," Sherlock leaned back, "There it is."

"Not a threat at all; a simple warning. Jim made it his mission to play with you, and look where he is now; six feet under. I respect you as a very intelligent man, Sherlock, and I don't want to mess with you. So in exchange, please respect me as a dangerous one, and know that if you get in my way, there will be a consequence."

"So why not kill me now? Why not just get rid of me and never have to worry about me getting in your way?"

"Your existence benefits me quite a bit, actually. You re-appearing will cause a large fuss. It's been rather boring while you were gone; not nearly enough people want other people dead to get you to chase them."

Sherlock stood up, "I understand our position."

Sebastian joined him, "I'm very glad we could come to an agreement. Anything else to say before I depart? There are people to kill."

Sherlock considered just walking away, but he turned to the slim man next to him, "You made a mistake."

"Excuse me?"

"That ring." He gestured towards it, "I've seen it before. In video's of 'Richard Brook'. It belonged to Moriarty."

Moran's face paled.

"You say your relationship with him was rarely friendly, even professional. But I don't think it was even platonic, was it? You loved him, so much you kept his ring. And I'm the reason he's dead. You're being merciful, giving me the chance to walk away. And if I do get in your way, it isn't me you'll come for. A lover for a lover." Sherlock approached him, until only a threatening inch was between them, "But I killed Moriarty, solved all of his games. The man who never got bored, and I stumped him. So let me tell you this, Sebastian Moran. If you lay even a finger on John Watson, I will hunt you down. I will torture you until you beg for mercy, and then I will string you up as a disgrace for the entire world to see."

Before Sebastian could even reply, Sherlock turned heel and marched away.

"Good to know we're on the same page, then." He called. Sherlock ignored him.

A half-block away, he pulled out his phone and called Mycroft.

"Sherlock? Is everything alright?" He asked cautiously.

"It's fine. I'm going to walk there, just letting you know it's fine."

"Doesn't sound fine."

"He just threatened me. What I assumed would happen. I'll be back soon."

He hung up quickly.

John was fast asleep and under the fall of dreams. In a dream, everything was pretty and he didn't have to worry. The polar opposite of the nightmares he had suffered from.

Sherlock came into their room just as it had started to rain outside. He knelt down on the bed and leaned down, kissing him on the forehead. Johns eyes fluttered open. Sherlock leaned down once more and kissed the pale lips, spreading them. He caught Johns tongue and sucked gently, letting it fall and doing it again. John let out a little whimper underneath him, and Sherlock felt a fire ignite inside of him. He pulled himself over John and kept kissing him, letting his hand trail between his companion's legs, gripping him over his pants.

"Ah!" John moaned, "Sherlock, I don't have a condom."

"I do," he breathed. He had, in fact, thought ahead. He leaned over to the tiny table by the bed and opened the first drawer, seeing the condoms immediately. He grabbed one and pulled back, meeting Johns eyes.

"Are you sure about this?" John lifted his hand and touched the pale face, inches from his.

"I'm sure. But…"

"But?"

"I need to say something," he sat back, "If you ever die… I don't think I can continue living. I want you to know I'll be close behind."

John gulped. He had never known of any love that was more centered on death than theirs, "Me too."

"You're my family," Sherlock stared at him, "All of them, they are a family to me, but you're the real… You're…"

"I know." John whispered.

Sherlock rested his head on Johns chest, and then started to kiss him there, gently, soft. John sat up and pushed Sherlock down, pulling off his own shirt and kissing him deeply. He pushed a knee upwards and Sherlock let out a little gasp. John smirked and trailed his fingers around Sherlocks hands until he found the condom. He pulled it away from him, noting that it was the type with lube already on.

"I'm gonna try to make you feel really good, okay?" John bit down on Sherlocks neck, "But if it hurts, tell me and I'll stop."

"Okay," Sherlock muttered. He was nervous, scared. John touched his face once, trying to tell him it would be okay, before beginning to unbutton Sherlocks trousers.

The pants were off in a few simple movements, his shirt halfway unbuttoned. John leaned up and tore open the condom with his teeth while Sherlock began fumbling at Johns pants. He put on the condom while Sherlock watched, breathing in and out, a mixture of lust and fear.

John wet his fingers in his mouth and slid them under Sherlock, stretching him. Sherlock gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the blankets underneath them.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes," Sherlock had never sounded more weak.

"Do you want me to stop?" John whispered.

"No, never."

John stretched more. Two fingers, completely inside, and then three. Sherlock was making ungodly whimpers that made John too hard to think clearly. But he did, he thought through it so he wouldn't go too fast. So he wouldn't break the fragile person who put all his trust in him.

"Put it in," Sherlock moaned, "I can't take it anymore."

John nodded. He pulled out his fingers and hoisted Sherlocks hips up. He aligned himself and caught Sherlocks eyes. He tried to communicate 'are you sure', to which Sherlock just nodded.

John pushed in. Sherlocks eyes flew open and so did his mouth, like he was going to scream, but he didn't.

It was so tight John thought he might explode. He let out a moan and looked at the blue eyes, he leaned closer and kissed the lips. He pulled back and pushed in again, starting a slow thrust. Sherlock was gasping underneath him, looking into his eyes. He reached up and grabbed the headboard.

John breathed through it, trying to keep in mind there were people nearby.

"Fuck," John breathed, "This is hard."

Sherlock laughed, it sounded strangled, and then he looked at him, "Harder. Please."

John looked doubtful but pushed in harder, faster.

It felt amazing, in all honesty. John was pretty sure he had never felt better, and most of that was probably because it was with Sherlock. John thought maybe he should have felt weirder about this, because he had never actually had sex with a man before. But to him, it wasn't sex with a man. It was sex with Sherlock. Someone he loved so much, it hurt him. He just hoped it felt as good for him.

Sherlock didn't know how to feel about the waves of pleasure and pain washing over him. He was almost embarrassed, he had nothing protecting him. Not clothes or any walls to his personality, not right now. He was laid out; every emotion he so direly hated and every moment of weakness, John would see it all. But at the same time he felt so close, closer than he had ever been with anyone before. And it wasn't bad, just different. He wondered how he could ever be the same. He arched and his stomach boiled.

"John-"

"I know," John squeezed shut his eyes and grabbed Sherlocks hand, "Me too. Five more seconds, and we'll do it together, okay? One, two, three…."

"Four," Sherlock gasped, "Five."

John came hard and Sherlock came on his own stomach. He let go of the headboard and fell, limp, breathing hard.

John sighed, pulled out, and fell down next to him. He yanked the condom off and tossed it to the floor. He breathed in and out, listening to Sherlock and watching his chest rise up and down.

"Are you okay?" John gulped.

"That was," Sherlock closed his eyes, "Informational."

John leaned over and left a kiss on his cheek, keeping his face there. After a few seconds Sherlock turned to look at him. Then he kissed him. It was probably just a normal kiss, but it meant so much more now.

"I need a cigarette," John said.

Sherlock laughed, it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

"I'd go get some from Lestrade but that might require putting on pants."

"True. What time is it?"

"Like, noon."

"Wow. So much for waiting until tonight."

"Waiting," Sherlock scoffed, "Overrated."

John closed his eyes, "Apparently."

"And we defiled Mycrofts house." Sherlock grinned at that.

John snorted, "That would be what you are most pleased about."

Sherlock turned and looked at him, "Was it okay?"

"The sex?"

"Sex with me."

John narrowed his eyes at him. He looked really worried.

"It wasn't okay. It was more than okay. It was amazing." He took his hand.

Sherlock smiled, "Want to go again?"

"Oh god yes."

The next and last day in the house was hectic. Everyone was getting packed and arranging the plans for arriving back into London. Everyone was so busy they didn't even notice that Sherlock refused to sit down. John smirked every time he saw it.

When the bags were all packed, and Mycroft had made a big scene about the mess John made with the feathers, they all stood outside, knowing the next time they saw each other, everything might be different. Irene had disappeared in the night, gone now. John was grateful. He felt like she didn't belong here, in their family, and she should go. Now she was gone.

Lestrade and Molly nodded their goodbyes at them, not hiding their nerves. Lestrade shook Sherlocks hand and met his eyes.

"Tomorrow. We'll make this right, everything will be fine."

"I know it will," Sherlock raised a brow at him, "I'll see you then."

Lestrade turned and got in his car. Molly gave them all a big smile, "Goodbye guys. See you soon!"

They turned and drove away. John lifted the last suitcase into Mycrofts car while Sherlock opened the door for Mrs. Hudson. They all packed inside and Mycroft drove them down the street.

"So, what's the plan?" Mrs. Hudson patted senselessly at her skirt.

"We'll arrive, you'll all go back to your normal lives. I have a few trusted men who will make sure you all stay safe until tomorrow. Lestrade has planned a press conference that Sherlock will go to, alone, and answer questions. And he'll be alive." Mycroft said it easily, like it was something flawless.

"Okay," John nodded. He wanted to go to the conference with Sherlock, but he knew he couldn't hold his hand forever, even emotionally. This was something John understood Sherlock had to do himself.

The drive home seemed longer than when they had gone to the tiny house, mostly because John knew what would happen when they got there. They'd order in food, probably talk, finally sleep in their own bed. John felt a little knot of anticipation. Tonight would be the last night Sherlock was all his. After tomorrow, the whole world would know he was alive and want a piece of him. Jealousy rose in him at that. John would have to share his friend with the world, again. Friend? Flatmate? Boyfriend? Lover? This 'no-labels' thing really was different.

John must have looked as frustrated as he felt, because eventually Sherlock took his hand and held it. It was a tiny gesture, Sherlock looked away like he didn't seem to notice or care. Mrs. Hudson glanced at it and smiled.

They pulled out in front of the house, and no one was around besides the few people who lived near. John wondered if the stalkers had given up, and then he saw them; a small group of people up the street, watching the car tentatively.

"Sherlock, people are watching." John spoke. Sherlock just shrugged.

"I'll be alive tomorrow, may as well give them more to talk about," at that last word, he opened the door and stood out of the car. The people's eyes were wide, searching as if they didn't know if what they were seeing was real. Sherlock reached down and helped Mrs. Hudson out of the car, and then John. The three of them nodded small thanks to Mycroft before he vanished up the street, and then they entered through the familiar door.

Mrs. Hudson hugged Sherlock, a big tight hug. John noted that she had always been the one person Sherlock didn't hesitate to show physical intimacy towards. Afterwards, Mrs. Hudson hugged John, and planted a little soft kiss on his cheek. She nodded, sort of knowingly, at the both of them and vanished into her flat.

Sherlock didn't look at John, just bounded up the stairs. John scowled and followed closely at his heels. As soon as they entered the room, John barely had time to drop their bags before Sherlock turned on him, shut the door, and pinned him against it.

John was expecting a flurry of kisses, maybe the exploration of his body. Maybe he could spend the rest of the day making love to Sherlock and that would be okay. But Sherlock pressed their bodies together and didn't do anything, just looked at him. John's eyes were staring at the hollow of Sherlocks neck, which was bare. He considered kissing it. Finally, he tore his eyes away and met Sherlocks.

This was what Sherlock wanted to do right now. In the dim light of their flat, he wanted to memorize the exact colour of John's eyes. On some days, they leaned towards green quite a bit. But today they were astonishingly blue. It wasn't like his own eyes, Sherlock recognized, sometimes he hated his own eyes. They were blue but grey, like an empty salt-water lake. Empty.

Johns eyes were never empty.

John was the type of person who could keep a straight face in any situation, but when you looked into his eyes, all his emotions were laid out exactly in order of importance. Sherlock had gotten rather good at decoding him. The top-most layer was some obvious lust, which Sherlock had to bite back the urge to attack. He could pull John to their bed, swallow that pleasure whole. But instead he kept searching, memorizing. There was a little hint of fear underneath, like John needed some reassurance. Mostly, there was something that made Sherlocks heart start beating a little faster. Unrequited love.

Sherlock had never been looked at with love before. He was the messy result of a very distant mother, a dead father, and a brother who had always been better than him. His childhood was a fair amount of acting out of boredom and for attention. He didn't do well in school, teachers hated him. He was rude and saw through everyone; the other kids hated him even more. He had gained fair amounts of respect in his profession as an adult, and had gained some fascinating enemies. Some people had shown obvious attraction to him. Irene practically undressed him with his eyes, Molly had always fancied him. But nothing higher than a crush that could be ended with any one simple gesture, be-it sex or just being rude enough as to make them hate him.

Sherlock had given John everything he had. He had been rude, as inconsiderate as he could be. He had even given John his virginity. But John was still here, looking at him with that… look. Love was something Sherlock couldn't begin to understand logically. Up until now, he had assumed no one could ever love someone like him and he could never love any average and boring person.

But John was here, faced all the demons, to run back into the arms of the biggest demon of all. And Sherlock loved him back. The thought actually bubbled up a lot of fear inside of him, similar to the pangs of unbelievable fear and love that had caused him to cry in front of John days ago. This was improbable. John would surely want to leave soon.

Sherlocks face was reflecting so much pain. John was curious if he would cry again. He didn't want him to. So he leaned up and kissed him, hoping to help the situation. They kissed in silence at the door for a few minutes, while John traced his fingers under Sherlocks shirt and along his prominent hip bones.

Sherlock pulled back, but kept his eyes closed. He leaned his forearms against the door while John continued rubbing his hips. There was a long scar there, like Sherlock had been stabbed. John wanted to trace it with his tongue.

"Sherlock?" John rested his palms on his stomach, "Are you okay?"

"Say you won't ever change your mind," he whispered, warm and hot in Johns ear, "That you won't get bored of me or sick of me and leave."

John was sort of shocked. And then he smiled, "I could never."

"Promise?"

"I promise." John laughed.

Sherlock smiled and moved his hips forward, harder into John, who let out a little gasp. His eyes fluttered to that neck again, and this time he did lean forward, letting his tongue explore.

After a few minutes of heavy breathing, John pushed him back.

"Want to fuck until dinner?"

"I would love to."

A few hours later, they ordered Chinese and ate at the table, just kind of basking in the silence of a well spent couple of hours. Sherlock looked particularly pleased with his performance, and in fact, was eating without John having to remind him. But the odd feeling in Johns stomach had returned, forcing him to poke uselessly as his plate.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked deeply.

John met his eyes, "Is everything going to be okay tomorrow?"

"God, you're not still worried about that are you?"

"Shut up, you seriously though I would leave you."

Sherlock considered this, "True. Tomorrow will be fine."

"I wish I could go with you."

"You should have asked. Of course you can."

"No," John shook his head, "You have to go. Yourself."

Sherlock watched him carefully, "You aren't going to be happy about it."

"Not at all."

Sherlock laughed and stood up, dropping his empty plate in the sink, and proceeded to sit back down, scooting closer to John.

"Eat," Sherlock nodded towards the plate.

"Not hungry," John pushed it away.

Sherlock caught his hand and squeezed it. John looked up at him, "Please."

"Fine."

Sherlock woke up the next day, and John was facing away from him. His chest was bare, and Sherlock traced patterns on his back. It was getting late, and his phone beeped. He stood up and went to it. It was from Lestrade.

**One hour.**

Sherlock got dressed silently, nothing special, just a suit. He stared at John, still sleeping, and considered waking him up. Something about it felt like a bad idea. He wasn't fond much of goodbyes, especially when John had been so weird about today. In the kitchen, Sherlock found a notepad and quickly wrote a note. He left it on the table and vanished through the front door.

When John woke up, the bed was cold. That was the first thing he noticed. He didn't have to do anything to know Sherlock was already gone for the day.

He checked the clock though. In a under five minutes, the conference would start and everyone would know. He immediately grabbed his phone and opened a new text message to Sherlock.

**Right now, in this moment, you are mine and no one else can have you. Pretty soon, I'll have to share. It's sort of bitter sweet, isn't it?**

He hit send and leaned back, just waiting. Within moments, though, his phone chimed.

**I will always be yours, John. –SH**

John smiled pointlessly and tossed his phone to the side, reaching for his laptop and opening it. He went to his blog and looked over it for a few moments. Comments were disabled, but the amount of views it had received was breathtaking. Perhaps they were there now, waiting for more news. He opened up a new post and began to write.

**The Return  
>As I type this, there is a conference beginning at Scotland Yard. The rumors have long since circulated, and today they will be confirmed, but I feel it's only fair that I give my own confessional as to the recent happenings. It's the least I can do for those of you who never stopped believing in him, and for the close friends who have supported me in the hardest times.<br>Yes, it is true. Sherlock is alive.  
>This news may shock you. As you can imagine, there was no greater shock than the one this news brought to me. As a soldier and as a man, I have never cried so hard in my entire life. I was, and probably still am, trying to comprehend the fact this is real. I'm so relieved, so happy. In reality, I'm not sure why I didn't punch him in the face. I know pretended to be dead to protect me, but still. Maybe I can still punch him.<br>Needless to say, I can't really expose the details about how he faked his death; I'll leave that up to your imaginations or whether or not Sherlock wants to tell. I can, however, inform you that Sherlock was faced with a choice. His suicide or the thoughtless murders of all his friends. I have never met a man more noble as to kill himself for the lives of the people he loves. And I have never met a man more clever as to fool the world.  
>I know I never gave you all much of an explanation to the events of a year ago, so let me offer it to you now in hopes you'll believe me. You'll all hear a lot of words, people who say Sherlock Holmes is a liar, a fraud, and that Richard Brook is real. I'm asking, begging you, to toss these ideas aside. Sherlock is the best man I've ever met, my best friend. My bond with him is strong and I have seen all the human emotions in him people fail to see. I would trust him with my life, and I trust that his choices a year ago were for my own good. If you can't trust him, believe him, then I am begging you to trust me when I say he could never do the treacherous things he has been accused of.<br>I can't really tell you how things are destined to progress from here. We will continue to live in flat 221B, and we will continue to solve cases for the good of mankind. Maybe one day the entire world will view him as an innocent man. Until then, I hope you do.**

The words seemed to flow, but John had to stop himself from telling the whole city of London and the internet world that he loved Sherlock and that's why they should trust him. He tried to view it logically, appealing to the hearts of the common man. When he had read over it three times and went to post it, twenty minutes had passed since the conference began. No doubt by now, Lestrade had finished explaining the situation and Sherlock was answering questions.

John wondered what to do. He could go back to sleep, but he had done an awful lot of sleeping lately. So he stood up and got dressed and headed to the kitchen to grab an apple before heading out. As he grabbed the now-soft fruit, he saw something on the table. Sherlock had apparently left a note.

_Conference. Wanted to wake you up, but I'm not much good at emotional things. I'll see you tonight. I love you._

John smiled. Reading it was so different.

He half-jumped down the stairs and out the door into the firm summer air. He hailed a cab and clambered inside.

"Cemetery, please." The words just kind of came out before he really thought about them. Huh. He supposed it might be a good place to go. The cabbie nodded, and John ignored the look of recognition.

He wasn't sure why he went to Sherlocks grave. Sherlock wasn't down there, he didn't even know if anyone was. It was just a grave with a name that was fake.

In the past year he'd only been here five times. Right after Sherlock died, four months later, a few days before Christmas, their anniversary of meeting each other (January 29), and Valentine's day. He brought flowers the last two times, but they were gone now. Someone had been here recently, probably on the anniversary of his death, and left a teddy bear wearing a blue scarf. John snorted and approached it, picking it up. It sort of looked like Sherlock. Probably a joke from Lestrade or something.

He sat down and just looked at the stone and the bear and the closest dead flowers. He hadn't ever been able to come here without crying. A week ago, on the anniversary, he wasn't even planning to come. He'd wanted to forget, mostly. And now today, it was just a rock with a name on it. And Sherlock was alive and well.

John reached out and touched it, just rested his hand there, and smiled despite himself.

He had a second chance now. Not a day was going to pass without him kissing Sherlock, he would make sure of that. And he'd help him, no matter what.

John sat there for about an hour. Something in his head was telling him to go home, call his therapist and tell her he won't be requiring her services anymore, or call Harry and tell her what was going on. But he couldn't. So he just sat there.

Eventually he was startled by footsteps behind him. He turned to find Sherlock looming over him, glancing at the grave. John stood up and brushed himself off.

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

"You weren't home, wasn't a difficult leap," Sherlock kept his eyes on the headstone. John stood next to him and they looked at it together.

"It's rather sad, isn't it?" John frowned, nudging the taller man.

"Mmm," Sherlock turned, "I've seen it before."

"You have?"

"Yes," Sherlock took Johns hand, "I picked it out. It was a completely silly and rather depressing request from Mycroft."

"Oh," was all John could muster as they began to walk, hand in hand. Suddenly he came back to reality, "How'd the conference go?"

"It went well, actually. As planned, almost everyone was expecting my return anyway. There were a lot of questions as to 'how' and 'why' and between Lestrade and myself we managed to give an fine portrayal of the event."

"So, they asked a lot of questions? Any fun ones?" John smirked.

"As always."

"Like?"

"Like whether or not Mycroft had anything to do with it. Of course, he did, but I have to keep his nose clean."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it." John noted.

"And," Sherlock stopped walking and turned to him, "They asked about you."

"Me?"

"Whether or not you knew anything. You didn't."

"Did they ask anything else?" John tried to communicate what he really wanted to know.

"They asked," Sherlock pulled John in close, "If we were romantically involved at any point last year."

"And you said no." John assumed, only slightly distracted by Sherlocks lips.

"Of course," Sherlock rested his hands on Johns hips, "And then they asked if we were romantically involved now."

"And you said…?"

"I said that's one word for it." Sherlock smiled.

"Idiot." John laughed, "You're asking for people to come after me."

"I think you can handle yourself, or I'll protect you," Sherlock basically purred, "And I want the world to know. Besides, living dangerously is kind of our thing, isn't it?"

John leaned forward to kiss him, but Sherlock pulled away teasingly.

"In other news, I got us a case. My first one back," He took Johns hand and pulled him along, "You may not sleep tonight. I've got to move my things in."

John rolled his eyes, but smiled. This was them now. Experiments and cases, kissing and yelling. Them for the rest of their natural lives, or at least until someone blew them up.

And John couldn't wait.


	9. Epilogue: Just the Beginning

Been a rough two months! I hate being a Junior in High School.

BUT I FINISHED THE EPILOGUE! (Yaaay) (But I didn't proof-read, too busy. So sorry if there are errors.)

Anywho, enjoy.

I am thinking about, maybe, doing a Volume 2 over the summer, involving Sebastian Moran. So keep watching!

Once again, my tumblr is Believe-Holmes.

And once again, I do not own BBC's Sherlock. Sadly.

Thank you, loyal babies. **I LOVE YOU.**

* * *

><p>The first week, Sherlock didn't touch him.<p>

John didn't really mind, not really. Sherlock was alive, and all of London knew. Of course, Lestrade had him. Every old case that they hadn't been able to figure out in the past year had been brought over the next day, and Sherlock was at work before John was even awake.

John thought he could never forget the mystical way Sherlock worked, but he somehow had. Sherlock seemed faster than before, more accurate, leading each string of information into the other and coming out with new clues John and Greg had somehow missed.

John had also always thought that Lestrade and himself were fairly good at deducing, after being around Sherlock for so long. Of course, they could never compare to the master.

Within the first day, Sherlock had solved half of the cases without leaving the house. He walked around, pinned up crime-scene photos and asked Lestrade questions when he was too lazy to read the case report. And John and Greg watched. He laughed at them, called them idiots for not being able to understand. He got overly excited when he reached a conclusion, and frustrated when they were unable to see what he saw. Lestrade would argue back, and then give up after a while. John had to force feed Sherlock to make him eat, and went to bed after Lestrade left.

John could sense Sherlock in the other room, practically hear him thinking, solving, deducing. John couldn't get Sherlocks smile out of his head. Maybe this was true paradise, knowing Sherlock could never be as happy as he was when he was solving crimes.

The next day was much of the same, but Lestrade was gone to arrest people as Sherlock accused them. John tried to stay with Sherlock at first, let him talk it out, but gave up after a few hours. He looked on his computer, called Harry and told her all about his past few weeks. Sherlock grabbed him and took him to dinner. Well, John ate while Sherlock spied on one of the waitresses involved in an old case. He had it solved before bed.

Sherlock was all in a fuss about the next case on the list, the string of serial killings that had been baffling Lestrade and John for the past few weeks, but John practically forced him to sleep. Sherlock ranted for a few more hours before passing out on the couch. John slept alone again.

The next four days, John worked with Molly at the yard, looking at bodies, during the day, while running all over London with Sherlock at night. While Sherlock deduced, John slept. After long battles, John usually won out making Sherlock get some sleep or eat some food. John suspected it was due to their new closeness.

But Sherlock only slept with him once, and there wasn't much touching.

Within the first few days, Sherlock solved the serial killer case; a couple with a hatred for cheating spouses. After that, Sherlock spent two days solving the case of a missing airplane engine from a machine; a woman and her two sons, angry and broken about her husband's illegal dock in paycheck. (Mycroft dipped a bit into that one, causing a fit from Sherlock before the case was over.)

Ten days after Sherlock's legendary return to London, all of Lestrade's top cases from the file were solved, including two "suspicious suicides" that ended up being more than that.

John came home late after checking out a few bodies for Mycroft, and found the apartment empty and dark. He let out a sigh and collapsed on the couch. It had been a long few weeks, and this was his first real moment alone in his house.

He didn't really like it. He'd spent a year alone in this place, and he didn't want to anymore.

He tried not to dwell on Sherlocks distance since their return. He was busy, and he was happy. He was also the most naturally distance man John had ever met.

Yet still, they were close, and it was not the same as it once was, over a year ago. John's bed was always open for Sherlock, and he would come when he could. It took much less effort getting the idiot to eat, and sleep, which meant Sherlock actually cared enough to know it meant a lot to John. John had overheard his roommate ordering a big freezer, and when John questioned him, he said it was so he wouldn't crowd the fridge with body parts anymore.

He was almost being… considerate.

The emotional closeness remained; the one that had always been there. John just sort of yearned for the actual closeness; the physical kind.

John was lost in that thought when the front door opened, he heard Sherlock march across the room, saw him slam down on the chair across from him (his chair, that had never been moved) and slam the thick folder down between them.

John raised an eyebrow at it, at the grin on Sherlock's face, "What's this then?"

"The cases, the unsolved ones," Sherlock sat back, "I solved them all."

"In ten days, no less," John smirked, "I expected sooner."

"A few were rather hard, it's no wonder you couldn't solve them. Others were blatantly obvious, you just weren't looking."

"So sorry," John murmured sarcastically, "Have you eaten?"

"Mrs. Hudson beat you to it," Sherlock stood up and approached the bookshelf, "Forced me to eat some god-awful soup she made. Have you?"

"Molly brought me takeout at work," John stood up, "What are you doing?"

Sherlock opened the small wooden box on the top shelf and removed a box of cigarettes, "It's been a few days. Want to take a walk?"

John had smoked at lunch, and felt fine now. But he wouldn't pass up a chance to walk and listen to Sherlock talk about cases. Even just to hear his voice. He nodded and went for his coat.

Outside, Sherlock passed him one and lit it. John inhaled and noticed that Sherlock wasn't in such a hurried pace like he usually was. He seemed to be watched Johns movements and following his step. So John strutted carefully along the sidewalk towards the main street.

"So why are you so happy about solving all the cases?" John flicked some ash away, "You usually would be upset. Now you've got to face the boredom until a new case comes along."

"I've actually missed it, a bit," John loved the way Sherlocks voice picked up a sensual deepness when he smoked, "Solving cases here."

He didn't say it, but John knew what he meant. He had missed solving cases together.

"Plus, I doubt we'll have much trouble getting a new case with our newfound fame. You haven't checked your blog, but I'm sure you've been contacted with new cases."

"How do you know I haven't checked my blog?" John looked sideways at him.

Sherlock gave a knowing smile, "I'm just glad for a break."

"You, take a break?" John snorted and turned the corner onto the main road. It was a bit crowded tonight, "I didn't know the great Sherlock Holmes took breaks."

"Not usually voluntarily," Sherlock stopped, his hand touching John's wrist and making him stop as well, "But now I've got you."

John smirked at him, tossing the butt of his smoke away, "I enjoy the cases too, you know."

"We can still take a break."

"Alright."

Sherlock met his eyes. The street lights made them seem so much more illuminated tonight, "You've done well, you know."

"What?" John furrowed his eyebrows.

"Some of the cases you solved when I was gone. It was impressive work."

John laughed, "Thanks. Not often I get complimented by the best consulting detective in the world."

"The only consulting detective."

John chuckled as Sherlock inhaled the last of his cigarette and tossed it aside.

"One day we'll be too old for this, you know."

John raised a brow at him, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Sherlock sighed and looked over the street full of people, "One day our joints will ache. We won't be able to run around London anymore. My mind will weaken. I'll start to forget."

The thought of Sherlock mentally deteriorating made fear rise in John's throat, "I guess we'll have to teach our kids the art, then."

Sherlock laughed darkly, "You want kids? Nasty little buggers."

"I was joking," John smiled, "Can we not talk about us getting old? It's kind of a bad thought."

"I used to think so, too."

"What changed your mind?" John looked sideways at his friend.

"Now I get to grow old with you," Sherlocks eyes lit up, "And that, John Watson, is the next great adventure."

John couldn't help the color that rose in his cheeks.

"And if you want kids, we'll adopt." Sherlock added.

"No one in their right mind would let you adopt a child," John giggled.

Sherlock faked wounded, "You hurt me, John. I happen to think we'd make great dads."

"We aren't even boyfriends, really," John rolled his eyes, "Let's take this one day at a time."

"We could get married."

John started to laugh and then saw the calculatingly serious look in Sherlock's eyes, "Marriage, Sherlock? You can barely think about us being together in general!"

"But I'm sure about you," Sherlock stepped in front of him, looking down into his eyes, "Enough to have sex with you."

"Yes," John didn't know what else to say. He just looked into his companions eyes.

"If you don't want to be married, I understand. It's nothing serious. We could…" Sherlock looked a little frightened despite the sureness in his voice, "We could stop this charade, and you could see other people-"

"No," John grabbed Sherlock's lengthy hand, "Stop. I said I love you, didn't I?"

Sherlock looked at him, "Yes."

"And I meant it. I don't want to see other people, or leave. Let's just work on cases for now, and live together. We don't need to get married. But if you want to in a few months, we will. Just a small thing, so you'll be comfortable."

"And kids?" Sherlock smirked.

"Maybe one day," John let him go and rolled his eyes, "I still think you'd be a shit parent. You can't even take care of yourself."

"That's what I have you for."

"True."

Sherlock put his hand on Johns face and smiled, pushing his fingers back through the graying hair. Then he leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss to John's lips. Johns face was hot, overly aware of the eyes lingering on them.

Sherlock pulled back, and John swore he saw some color in his cheeks. John chuckled deep in his throat and grabbed the black haired man's hand.

"Come on. Let's go home and sleep together for once."

"Alright," Sherlock trotted along, "Can we stay in tomorrow, take that break I was talking about?"

"Are you propositioning me for sex?" John mused.

"Yes."

They walked, hand in hand, back to 221B, laughing the whole way there.


	10. To Be Continued

This story now has a sequel called blackout that can be located here:

fanfiction(dot)net /s/8196772/1/Blackout


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